Into His Hands
by Brigh Darach
Summary: The Order have given the Trio three separate assignments. Hermione is sent to Hogwarts, now under Headmaster Severus Snape, where she has no allies and holds a secret which could send the Order into chaos if revealed.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've been a die-hard SS/HG reader for years, and now I've finally worked up the courage to try my hand at writing their stories. I hope you enjoy this! Please be kind in reviewing, I'm a noob.  
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**And by the way, there will be lemons, but we've got a while to go yet.  
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**Enjoy!  
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Hermione Granger sighed. The pain in her abdomen was atrocious, but she knew it would lessen soon enough. She pushed her hair back from her face and lifted the Somnambul charm she had placed on the red-headed man, his long hair fanned out over his pillow. "Gods, I'm sorry," she whispered. _It's not as if he'll ever know,_ her guilty mind pleaded. _But _I _know.  
_  
She lifted the identical charm on the man's beautiful, blonde wife sleeping next to him. Hermione didn't apologize a second time. She had nothing to say to this woman. Nothing against her, but no guilt in regard to her, either. This woman had everything Hermione hoped for, but couldn't attain, and the younger girl could never quite keep the bitterness out of her voice and face when the blonde was around, no matter how hard she tried.

Hermione crept through the cottage, still and slumbering like a living thing at this hour of the morning. It had been home for a few short weeks, but now it was time to go back to the Plan. Or rather, to invent a new Plan. Their plans were shit and were always running away from them, unachievable. Hermione loved Harry and Ron, loved them with all her heart, but couldn't they just be sensible for once? They weren't invincible, no matter how much they might want to be.

She tiptoed past Luna, stretched out on a sofa that was too short for her, her legs hanging over the edge, face pillowed on her folded hands like a storybook princess. Dean was curled into the foetal position in his camp bed; Hermione doubted he knew that he slept that way every night, turned in on himself almost as soon as his eyes closed—but she had been restless for weeks now, unable to sleep, and had come past her two schoolmates every night on her way to the shore, where she'd take off her clothes and immerse herself, just sitting in the breakers, until her fingertips were purple and she couldn't wait any longer to cast the warming charm over herself.

Out in the garden, Harry and Ron turned toward the sound of her feet, Harry holding out his hand and drawing her against his side so that his chin rested on top of her head. Sweet, loyal Harry. Innocent Harry. It was Harry she thought of sometimes, on her nightly ventures. What would his life be like when this was all over; what could his life be like with her? But she knew that wasn't their destiny. Hermione couldn't love someone whose smile was so easy to bring out, someone who was so content with the smallest scope of life. They'd be too mismatched and she'd fold in on herself, confused and angry, and never unfold again until it was too late, until she was creaky and dust-covered with age and there was no beauty to be found in her anymore.

Ron came behind them without speaking, and put his arms around them both, turning so that his temple rested against the back of Harry's head. They stood like that, not speaking, and presently the air rang out with a mighty c_ra-cra-crack_; when she finished flinching Hermione saw three wizards turning on the spot, having appeared out of nowhere nearly simultaneously.

This was no time for happy greetings or handshakes. The wizards approached silently, robes flying behind them, and Hermione was conscious of how silly she must look in Ron's old sweater and Fleur's castoff jeans. Just like a child. _I _am _a child, _she thought, but then she remembered what she'd just done in that upstairs bedroom, the dirty, disgusting work of five minutes, and knew she wasn't a child any longer.

"Ready?" grunted the man in the lead. Aberforth's hair and beard were wild in the wind, and his eyes shone like his late brother's as he gestured abruptly to Harry's knapsack, which Harry handed over before linking arms with the older man, nodding. "Good." They strode a few metres away, quickly and, on Aberforth's part, jerkily. Harry looked as though he was being dragged, like a child being made to do something he didn't want to do. They spun together. In a flash it occurred to Hermione that she might never see Harry again, and she stepped forward, stretched out her hand, and cried out "Wait!" She half-heard herself, her voice covered by the crack of Apparition and the pounding surf nearby.

They were already gone. She quickly fell back beside Ron, quiet again. The taller of the two remaining men glared disdainfully at her outburst.

"And you, Ron?"

The African man's accent was warm, buttery, and Hermione longed to bring him inside the house, to sit and chat over tea like they had many times in Grimmauld Place. _Don't think of it, don't! It's in the past, leave it there; you'll only hurt yourself thinking about it. _Kingsley always had time for her; always answered her questions thoroughly and with a smile. He'd told her many times that she had a future in the Ministry, but he'd stopped saying it lately; the Ministry was just a front for the Death Eaters, now.

Ron detached himself, moving towards Kingsley, but turned back and cupped Hermione's cheek, his lips curving up to one side in a half-smile. "See you," he murmured, looking as though he was trying not to cry. A perfunctory kiss on her cheek, and he was gone.

Hermione closed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest against the cold of the night, but also against what was coming. This would not be easy. The boys' missions were no picnic, either, but she felt a special fear for her own situation. Once she did this, once she went back there, she wouldn't get out again, not until it was all over.

"Miss Granger?" The Headmaster's voice cut across her thoughts and her eyes flew open. She steadied herself, put her fisted hands by her sides and said clearly, "I'm ready." He wouldn't be patient, she knew. The black-robed wizard tucked her securely against himself, one arm around her shoulders with her cheek resting against his collar, and a million unfinished thoughts rose up in her at the smell of him, the _maleness _of him, but before she could draw another breath they were in Dumbledore's old office at Hogwarts, and he was already striding across the room, away from her, silent, cold, and she was alone.

/-/

When he turned back to her, bearing a uniform for her in Gryffindor colors, the only thought that came to her was _He's so young. _Severus Snape bore no resemblance to the venerable wizards and witches that lined the walls of his newly assumed office. _I'd hardly call him old enough to be my father_, mused Hermione, _but in the Wizarding world things are different. Harry's parents would be his age, if they'd lived. _Snape took his seat behind Dumbledore's—_no, it's his now_—ornate desk and leaned forward onto it, his clasped hands down on the mahogany surface. His liquid eyes pierced into her, and she felt pinned against the hard back of her chair. _Is he doing that? Can he do such things?_ She knew over the years she'd attributed more to him than could have been possible, seen him as a god, nearly. But the more she learned about Legilimency and Occlumency, the more she shuddered to think of what the man probably _could _do to someone, if he had a mind to.

Without preamble he spoke. "Miss Granger, I must ask you—and I want no histrionics or self-pity from you—can you do this?"

Hermione's breath came in sharply. "I—Y-yes." _Steady now, control your breathing. _With effort she removed the tremors from her tone. "Yes."

He huffed, nostrils flaring. "You forget yourself already, girl. Where are you? _Who _are you? Don't forget. I'm not your friend. We are not on the same side." She nodded, eyes on his hands because that was easier than bearing the weight of those eyes. "Now, I ask you again. _Can you do this?"_

This time her answer was ready. "Yes, Headmaster. I believe I can."

"You know that they will hurt you?"

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that I will have no choice but to allow them to do it?"

"Yes, sir."

"You understand that under no circumstances will I allow you to attempt escape, and that if I catch you in the act it will not go well for you? We must take our roles now, Miss Granger. It won't be easy."

She paused before answering. "Yes, sir. I understand."

He didn't look satisfied with her answer, but motioned her to a narrow door she hadn't previously noticed, hidden between two bookshelves behind a stone column. "You may change in there. If I've forgotten something, ask." He smirked at the uniform twisted in her hands. "It's been a long time since I wore one of those."

She stepped into the small lavatory and stripped, never letting her fingers touch her stomach. _Oh God, oh God—idiot, idiot!_ She stilled her mind. _Too late now_. And look, there was Hermione Granger, Gryffindor Princess in the mirror, straightening her necktie like she had so very many times before, not beautiful, but at least familiar. Comforting.

Emerging back into the office, she crossed the room without looking at Snape, fighting to keep a straight face. Her hand on the doorknob, he stopped her, his eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me, Granger?"

She closed her eyes and turned so that her back rested against the door—the image flashed across her mind of a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. How to say this without betraying too much? She raised her eyes slowly to his. "I confess I think I'll find it difficult to act afraid of you." He quirked an eyebrow, and belately she remembered the honorific he was due. "Sir."

He stalked toward her, quiet as a cat. "And _why _is that, Miss Granger?"

She pressed herself further back against the oak and stammered, "I—I never have been, sir. I _couldn't _be."  
His wand was moving over her, and she realized in the back of her mind that he was mussing her hair, disheveling her clothes, making her look as though they'd—no!

Snape seemed to have caught that thought, because his smirk became positively black and he whispered, "Oh, yes." His wand made a slow path downward from her neck to her navel, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her school shirt and wrinkling the fabric the rest of the way down. "Don't think I'll make this easy, girl. Don't think I'll _protect _you. In a week's time you'll have no difficulty at all in viewing me with nothing less than terror." He tapped his wand to the pad of his thumb and brushed it over her cheekbone, and she felt the bruise he placed there ache and begin to spread. His face was so close to hers that his breath moved the hair falling forward over her temples.

"Now, out. Let them find you."

And she knew, as her footsteps echoed eerily along the halls of the sleeping castle, that he was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I forgot the disclaimer in the first chapter, but of course I am not J.K. Rowling. She's amazing and she owns all the characters and content that you recognize. Which is, I'm pretty sure, everything. I'm not making any money from this.**

No Sev/Hermione interaction in this one (bummer, I know!). You _**will **_**find a very nasty Slytherin, though, and more light is shed on Hermione's situation.**

Hermione's mother was a hippie-a bona fide, patchwork-wearing, pot-smoking hippie. Hermione, of course, had very little in common with her mother as far as these things were concerned; instead, she took after her father, who kept up with scientific journals and liked nothing more than to lose himself in the dusty shelves of an out-of-the-way bookstore. As she grew older, Hermione's relationship with her mother had largely fallen by the wayside; what on Earth were the two women to talk about? But one thing she did have her mother to thank for was the ritual she'd been performing since she could remember, the mental exercise that kept her focused and grounded no matter what happened around her.

_Hermione's mother stood at the kitchen counter kneading bread dough while Hermione played with her dolls on the floor. "Tell me three words that describe you at this moment, my darling," her mother had asked, and a five-year-old Hermione had answered, "Clever, happy, and…. um…. clever!" She giggled, getting up to peer at the loaves her mother was forming, turning the dough under and over itself again. "I don't _know _three, Mum."_

"That's just fine, love." Her mother grinned down at her. "I think you're so clever it deserves to be said twice."

As Hermione matured, Three Words became a regular thing between them. She remembered standing in front of her full-length mirror in her new school robes after her first trip to Diagon Alley, shaking and clutching her new wand for all she was worth. Taking a deep breath, she'd said "Powerful. Magical. Ready." Her mother had answered, "Overjoyed. Surprised. Proud."

_What would my Three Words be now, Mum?_

Fear was not something which normally plagued Hermione, but it did now, and she fought it back as best she could. This was Hogwarts, after all. This castle had nurtured her, taken her in like a third parent when she felt frightened and insecure at the tender age of eleven and had never, ever hurt her. She'd snuck out often enough with the boys to have seen these halls deserted plenty of times; she'd scurried across the grounds in the wee hours of the morning to Hagrid's or the Forest, back when the biggest worries she'd had were baby dragons, flying cars, and detention.

Back when not even the smallest nook or cranny in the back of her mind had been concerned with her death.

Pain: now that was something that touched Hermione far too often. The pain of being different, too smart, too opinionated. "Bossy," she knew, though she was loath to admit it, was a more accurate term for how she'd been. Pain came to her most evenings when she emerged from the library and remembered, coming up as though through a fog, that life wasn't like the books she'd been lost in. Life wasn't a fairy tale; even in magical castles people would hurt you for having the wrong name, the wrong sex, the wrong blood.

Her shoes squeaked into the silence that engulfed her. She was surprised to find a lump in her throat, and swallowed the pain down, buried it for the millionth time in her breast, where no one could see. _I don't have time for pain now, _she told herself, not unkindly. _No one has time for their pain_. She rattled off the litany of Order members in her head, something she'd been doing more and more often to keep herself calm and in perspective. _Remus transforms and he's in pain. Harry's scar hurts and he's in pain. Mad-Eye's leg aches and he's in pain._

Hermione's alone and she's in pain.

Ahead of her, two silhouettes were outlined by torchlight, causing Hermione to draw up short; but she'd already been seen. The taller of the two figures, thin and male, stepped in front of the other, who shrank behind him as though afraid. The haughty drawl confirmed her suspicions as soon as he spoke, and her heart thudded all the harder within her. _It begins._

"Well," snickered Draco Malfoy, "what have we here?"

She didn't dare hesitate or slow down; it seemed inconceivable to her that Draco would have scruples about casting the Cruciatus or Sectumsempra on a Gryffindor. A smaller, weaker Gryffindor—in the dead of night—not when he knew there was no chance of punishment for him or his House.

"So, you're back, then, Mudblood?" She could see his face now, the evil smile. He was a predator, the top of the food chain in this new paradigm, and he looked the part. His teeth gleamed ferally in the fire's glow.

"Draco." Hermione's voice was low and tremulous. The funny thing was, she hadn't even had to make it come out that way.

Draco turned to the girl behind him, and, putting his finger under her chin, he lifted her face for a kiss that was in no way reciprocated. The girl looked utterly defeated, the empty shell of a person. She kept her eyes averted, looking neither at Draco nor Hermione. Draco's hand slid down to cup her bottom, and he twisted and tugged his hand around as he spoke to her in serious tones.

"When you see your sister tomorrow, tell her she'll be with me after dinner. You'll be Crabbe's." Parvati's face betrayed no emotion; her eyes were glassed over, her lips pursed. Draco pulled back and studied her expression with mock concern. "Oh, don't be sad," he clucked. "She can't suck like you can, pet."

Patting her bottom, he sent her in the direction of the Tower, and turned back to Hermione, who'd found herself rooted to the spot once she'd identified who Draco'd been having his way with. He loped the few yards between them easily, and the smell of sex assaulted her senses. "Had a taste for curry," he leered. "Midnight _snack."_ His grey eyes raked over her, and she felt exposed, helpless. "And who the fuck's had a taste for you, Mudblood? Should've guessed you'd loosened those legs up, the way Potter and Weasley followed you around like puppies." He drew close and pushed the pad of his thumb into the bruise Snape had created. "Hmm, whoever he was, he was rough. Good man." In a rare display of equity, he added, "Or woman."

Then comprehension dawned. His eyes widened and his hand reached down to toy with the pleats in her skirt; she fought back the urge to vomit. "You're coming from Snape, aren't you, Granger?" She looked down at the floor, and couldn't keep her face from crumpling in on itself—it was all too much, she'd lied to Snape, she couldn't do this-

"He's _fucking _you, isn't he, you little slut?" His eyes flashed in the darkness, inhuman. "Goddamn, wait til I tell my father about this. Old Sev pulls some surprising shit every once in a while, but this takes the fucking cake."

Draco rambled on about the despicable things he reckoned "Old Sev" had been up to on a "fine night like this." Hermione began to count his curse words for distraction, never rising to the bait he was so obviously laying before her. He _wanted _her to react, which told her it would be dangerous to do so.

"What about it, hmm, Granger?" He traced the tip of his long, slim index finger down her cloth-covered breast and leaned in close to her ear to finish his proposition. "Fancy a go right here in the corridor?" He punctuated his words with kisses to her jawline. "I'll tear. You. Up."

Bile rose in her throat, and she couldn't take it anymore. _Fucking hell. _"Expelliarmus!" she cried, whipping her wand out of her cardigan sleeve, but it did nothing. It was as though she hadn't spoken.

The back of Draco's hand came across her unbruised cheek in a flash. She reeled against the wall he'd so craftily backed her into. She hadn't noticed. "Sorry 'bout that, love," he grinned, "Sometimes a bitch needs to learn a lesson. And you _love _lessons, don't you, Granger?"

He rolled up his left sleeve. "Times change," he crooned in a soft, low voice. "See? No Mark, no spells. Not anymore." He glanced down at her wand, limp in her hand. "That won't work anymore. All Houses bow to us Slytherins, now." He sniffed. "As it should be."

Muttering "Lumos," he checked her face, noting with glee that the cheek he'd struck had already begun purpling, matching its twin. He laughed, one short sound like a bark. "Merlin, you'll look like shite in the morning." Hermione slowly looked up at him; his face was deranged, and, unbelievably, aroused. "Now, don't make me ask twice." He pushed her down between him and the wall, reaching for his fly.

"Knees, Granger."

The tears pricked the corners of her eyes as he went about his business. _Three Words_, she thought, trying to keep calm. _You can do this. _She took in deep breaths through her nose. _Three Words… afraid. Gods, yes, afraid. Loyal? Yes, I'm that too._

Alive.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Our hero and heroine share a moment at the end of it. I hope you like it!**

Not making any money from this; everything belongs to JKR.

The incident with Draco that night was in no way an isolated one. The Hogwarts Hermione had walked into three weeks ago was nearly unrecognizable from the place she'd spent the last six years. McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout had been kept on staff as figureheads only; they had no authority, but were only there to keep uninformed parents thinking all was well at their children's school. The other non-Slytherin professors had been summarily dismissed, replaced by Death Eaters or others who sympathized with Voldemort. Hermione was shocked that so many teachers could be found who would believe in, and uphold, the pureblood claptrap these new ones now spewed; the students were taught that Muggles were to be pitied and avoided, but that it didn't hurt anyone if you had to "put a Muggle in its place" every now and then. Only when necessary, of course—but the line between necessity and pleasure was kept vague, the subject avoided when it was brought up. The teachers told them that Muggle-borns and half-bloods might—unknowingly, of course, for how could they know better? poor dears—bring Muggle influence with them into the school, and thus were not to be trusted or given positions of authority.

In class, Slytherins and members of any House who'd taken the Dark Mark were allowed practical application of what they'd learned, while everyone else had a "group discussion," led by the teacher, about how the material they'd covered could be put to better use under the New Ministry than it had been under the Old. Before they left class the unMarked Slytherins' wands were keyed not to work in the corridors or dormitories, while Marked students had free reign. It was Umbridge all over again, without Dumbledore there for protection. Over it all stood Snape, a seldom-seen, impassive figure, never one to punish wrongdoing—_he never was, if it was a Slytherin,_ thought Hermione—but rarely involved in the discipline of innocents, either. _He certainly is hedging his bets well, _Hermione decided. _He acts as if he's all for the Dark, but then he doesn't do anything to hurt us Light ones, either._

Neville and the other members of Dumbledore's Army were conspicuously absent, and Hermione was given no clue as to where they were. There had been some talk, awhile back, that Neville had access to the school through the Room of Requirement, though she didn't know any details, as the Order liked to keep things on a need-to-know basis. It tortured her all the more that he might be so close, and was doubtlessly unaware of what she was going through just a few stories below him.

Two bright spots, and only two, appeared in Hermione's life at this time. The first was that Professor McGonagall—hardly the woman she had been, with her hair permanently flyaway, bags under her eyes, and barely a glimmer of her spitfire personality left under her defeated manner—found any excuse to give Hermione detention. "Detention," of course, was simply a cover for friendly conversation, often leading to tears shared over a cup of tea. McGonagall had been hit incredibly hard by Snape's unexpected betrayal of Dumbledore and the Order; Hermione suspected that he had been rather like a son to her before that happened. After all, she had taught him as a boy and then, when he'd begun teaching, helped him find his place among the staff and showed him the best ways of imparting knowledge to his students. Hermione observed that the Scottish witch barely looked in his direction now, on those rare occasions when he took meals in the Great Hall with everyone else.

The second bright spot in Hermione's life was, unsurprisingly, the company of Ginny Weasley. Hermione could only guess at how terrible Arthur and Molly must feel, knowing what school was now like for their Gryffindor child; but Ginny bore up well, and didn't take shite from anyone, Slytherin or otherwise. Lavender and, it seemed, every girl who wanted to keep her head on her shoulders gave Draco and his friends what they wanted, whenever they wanted; even Hermione preferred to keep a low profile and service them without fighting back, though she kept it strictly oral, something she considered a miracle every time she got away without one of the boys lifting her skirt. Ginny, however, was the "exclusive property" of Blaise Zabini, which suited the other boys just fine—there were plenty of females to go around, and Hermione suspected Ginny intimidated them anyway, though they'd never admit it.

Hermione was puzzled, then, when Ginny casually mentioned one day that she was a virgin. The two girls were in the library, pretending to study so they could have privacy enough to talk about things not suitable for the common room.

"You've got to be joking, Gin," said Hermione in low tones, her brow furrowed in confusion. "But then what do you _do _all those nights you're with him? Sometimes you even sleep there!"

Ginny gave her a conspiratorial look. "What I do is keep secrets," she replied. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she leaned in close to Hermione and explained, "Zabini's Muggle-born." Hermione's eyes widened to the point of discomfort, her mouth dropping open. "But then how did he—"

"Get into Slytherin? Search me." Ginny shook her head. "His mum's some famous African model, and his dad's money makes the Malfoys look like paupers. I guess everyone just assumes they're magical, but they're not, and I suppose the money keeps anyone from prying too far into matters." The red-head shrugged. "Besides, he doesn't want to have sex until he's married. Says the thought doesn't even arouse him unless she's his wife… He's quite religious, which I never knew, but then if you think about it, how much does any of us really know about Blaise?"

Hermione had to agree—the biracial boy was mysterious if nothing else. "Is he… nice to you? I mean, what goes on between you?"

Ginny's mouth quirked up. "Yeah, he's nice enough. Says Fred and George did him a good turn once, covered for him when he was out past curfew. Doing this for me is his way of repaying them. Of course, it works out for him as well." She continued thumbing through her Defense textbook while she spoke, her smile broadening. "He doesn't really talk much, but I think we're friends. We just draw the curtains around his bed, cast a silencing spell and lay there reading together, or play cards, whatever. Sometimes we talk, but he's really shy—doesn't open up much. It's funny, if I get joking and it's too racy for him, he blushes and rolls over so I can't see. Who knew a Slytherin could be so sensitive? It's hilarious winding him up…"

The girls giggled together, and Hermione's spirits lifted. How wonderful that Ginny was safe and happy, escaping in some small measure the atrocities that were, more than ever, par for the course. And it was heartening, too, to learn that not all the Slytherins were evil or hated Muggles, Muggle-borns and "blood traitors."

_I'll just focus on the bright spots,_ decided Hermione, _and get through it. Somehow._

/-/

It was a crisp Sunday morning just after breakfast, and Hermione was sharing a cup of tea in McGonagall's office. The Professor had called her out in the Great Hall as she was leaving, angrily saying they needed to discuss Hermione's "poor performance in class" post-haste. The new Death Eater professors had smirked and nudged each other in the ribs; they did so love to see Mudblood students' weekends shot to hell. Hermione put on a meek countenance, ducking her head and trying to act as though she was disgusted with herself as she followed the older woman from the Hall. As soon as she'd warded her doors—a common practice now, as teachers now could and did employ corporeal punishment—they dropped the act and settled down to talk like the friends they were starting to become.

McGonagall looked extensively weary. She sighed heavily before asking "Are you alright, dear? I hope you haven't been experiencing more of the same, but I'm certain my hope is unfounded." Looking up, she timidly asked "Have they been… has it been worse?"

Hermione gulped her scalding tea—the burn took her mind off other things—and answered. "Not worse, no. I can keep them off me well enough; most of them, at least. Draco's persistent, but it's not more than I can bear."

The Scottish woman appeared to be steeling herself, sitting up straighter and pinching her mouth into a shadow of its trademark purse. "Child, I have to ask you: do you have contraception at hand?" Hermione blushed and looked down at her tea, milky and cooling in her cup. McGonagall went on. "I'm sorry, dear. I know it's awkward, but you know which side Pomfrey's on and whose welfare she cares about." Hermione gave a faint nod, her eyebrows lifting. The three Houses not in the matron's good graces were largely left to figure out healing spells on their own these days; a few sixth- and seventh-year students had become de facto Healers for the younger children who had less control over their broomsticks (and emotions).

"You don't need to worry about me," said Hermione at last, and McGonagall, who had obviously been reticent to bring up the subject in the first place, seemed satisfied. But Hermione knew the woman would have a conniption if she learned the reason contraception wasn't needed; the young witch had been sick just that morning and, counting the days of her cycle on the calendar, finally admitted to herself what she'd known for the better part of a week: her plan had worked.

Hermione Granger was pregnant.

/-/

Later, at lunch, Blaise had cocked his head purposefully at Ginny, who'd grimaced and followed him from the Hall in the direction of the dungeons. _How perfectly wonderful for him, _thought Hermione bitterly, _he gets to be shy all he wants and steal Ginny away as a cover… meanwhile, _I'm _left with no one to talk to. _She checked herself mentally, thinking of the little being in her uterus, and smiled a bit, hidden behind her hand. _I'll walk around the lake_, she decided. _I've got a lot of thinking to do._

When she returned an hour later, an unnatural hush was over the castle, and students and staff appeared nervous and antsy, scurrying silently from place to place. "What's up?" Hermione whispered to a fourth-year Hufflepuff hiding in the girls' first-floor lavatory.

"_He's _coming," the dark-haired girl squeaked in reply. "The Minister. To _inspect._"

_Ah, _Hermione thought. _The infamous Thicknesse. _She placed a hand lightly on her belly and drew in a deep breath, looking in the mirror, her expression never changing but her chin coming up an inch or so. _He can't be any worse than what I've been dealing with for weeks. Bring it._

Within ten minutes the teachers had ducked their heads into every chamber and alcove, rounding up the students and instructing them to sit quietly and attentively at their House tables in the Great Hall, while they themselves stood primly behind their chairs on the dais, hands behind their backs, faces impassive. When everyone was still, the tableau complete, the doors at the ends of the hall opened, and Snape strode in, resplendent in the robes of his Office and striding his usual purposeful stride to the front of the room. He stopped in the space just before the platform the where the teachers' table was, then turned back to the doors and rolled up his sleeve. Hermione watched as he undid his cuff and pushed back the fabric of the black robe, then the surprising white Oxford shirt beneath. She lost herself for a moment in the shape of his wrists, the strength of his forearm; things she had never seen before but often wondered about and longed for.

When she looked up at his face it was turned to her, his eyes hooded. His lips tightened imperceptibly, and he blinked once, rather harder than normal. He looked… _sorry for me,_ realized Hermione, though she couldn't think why.

He tapped his wand lightly to his Mark, and Hermione saw it glowing red like an ember beneath the white cloth as he righted his sleeve. Before the black cloth could cover the white, three men had Apparated to the far end of the Hall, nearest the doors: Thicknesse, implausibly tall and thin, and two unremarkable assistants who flanked him a few steps behind. The Minister strode up the aisle and clasped hands with Snape—_don't they look friendly, _Hermione mentally snorted, but the humor in her mind was chased away by fear: _what if they really are?_

Thicknesse's overlarge eyes gave a cursory glance around the room, and he nodded once, pleased but bored by what he saw. He murmured something to Snape, who nodded, and turned to her. They _all _turned to her. Snape flicked his hand and out of nowhere Thicknesse's lackeys were on either side of her, their hands like manacles around her arms.

Suddenly she realized why the Headmaster felt sorry for her: the school wasn't being evaluated today. _She _was.

/-/

Up in his office, Snape stayed where Hermione couldn't see him. Her range of vision was limited, as she was tied in place, held in the chair that usually sat opposite the Headmaster's armchair but which had been drawn out into the center of the room, giving the Minister space to pace to and fro in front of her and invade her mind over and over again until it caused her irrepressible pain. She'd been able to hold back any expression of the agony in her head for oh, five minutes… but then she started crying, and screaming, resenting herself, and above all resenting Snape for not coming to her aid.

_He warned me he wouldn't. _Her cheeks were wet; her hands, behind her back, were shaking. _And they say he's not honest._

"Where – is – Harry – _Potter?"_ cried Thicknesse again, his consciousness plunging like an ice-pick through Hermione's wide-open eyes and into her brain as she thrashed in the chair and groaned in her throat. She had realized early into this encounter a truth about the new Minister that had escaped anyone in the Order. The man was not Confunded or Imperiused; oh no, he was fully Possessed by Voldemort, and thus was only a vehicle for the Dark wizard's thoughts and powers. Voldemort stood before her, she knew, wearing a mask that made him acceptable in society but changed him not at all.

He continued interrogating her, hurting her mercilessly until she screamed out "I don't _know! _He- _he went off with Aberforth Dumbledore and that's all I can tell you!"_

Snape hissed and emerged from behind a column, a look of triumph on his features that was matched by the Minister's. Dimly Hermione heard congratulations, saw Thicknesse straightening his attire and Disapparating. She slumped within her bonds, powerless, exhausted, and full of despair.

What happened next, when she later thought about it, was hazy, like a dream. She heard Snape's low tones as he spoke in an endless stream of sound to her while loosening the ropes that bound her. She felt herself being lifted as though she were light as a feather. Snape took her to the chair behind his desk and sat, cradling her to him as if she were a child. His thumbs were at her temples, his fingers fanned out over her skull, snaking under her hair in soothing motions, and she clenched her eyes tight against the residual pain that caused every sound he made to ricochet around her mind in harsh, endless clangs.

She tried to focus on what he was saying, and slowly it came into focus. His voice was soft, but still smooth as honey. "Shh, you're alright, you're fine," he half-sang to her. "Can you open your eyes for me?" The fingers of one hand left her scalp and he traced the tips lightly over her brow, then under her eyes. She whimpered and shook. "Open your eyes, Hermione. Trust me. It's alright, please, just open your eyes…"

Somewhere within her she found the strength to do as he asked, and his eyes were larger than life before hers, and then _he _was inside her mind, the feeling of him as different from that of the Minister as night and day. _He's night, _thought Hermione blearily. _Thicknesse was glaring light, but he's—he's black and velvet, and… oh, please… _It still hurt so badly, and Snape echoed his hands' caresses with those of his mind, sweeping over Hermione's mental pain, smoothing out the edges of her mind's landscape and projecting images to her of safety and peace.

Her eyes stared up into his and she wept without ceasing until she laid her head down on his shoulder, spent, and slept with the golden afternoon light pouring in through the windows.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Oooooh mmyyyyy goooodddds, I'm SO sorry it's been so long since I posted. Real life has been a bitch. This chapter was a bitch. Bitches abound! Posting will go back to being a couple of times a week now that life's settled down.**

Someone brought up in a review the fact that the rest of the Order trusts Snape, but Minerva seems not to know where his allegiance lies. In this story, she does know, but knowing something intellectually and believing it can be two different things. Her feelings are extremely hurt by both Albus Dumbledore and Snape, for not letting her in on their plan; and then she's confused by her ability to be so angry at a dead man and at a man who's like a son to her, and to top it all off Snape has to treat her unkindly in the public eye… yeah, confusing. Poor Minerva!

Oh, and the house in this chapter is based off of a real house that I drove by every day when I lived in England a few years ago. If you live there, congrats, you have the most beautiful house on the freaking planet.

**I hope you enjoy this! I swear, this is SS/HG… it'll just take them a while to get on with it ;)  
**  
Hermione was not approached again for any news of Harry or Ron. Undoubtedly Thicknesse had been able to see, through her feeble attempts to Occlude, that she really didn't know where they had gone, only with whom; she held a hope deep within her that Snape was interfering on her behalf and keeping the Minister at bay, but didn't let herself think too heavily on it. The dark-haired wizard had not so much as glanced in her direction in the week since he had held her close and taken the worry from her mind, and that hurt as much as anything else; she had hoped a door might be opening up between them, and with every passing day that he ignored her she drew into herself all the more, rejected and confused.

Professor McGonagall knew what had happened—in fact, the whole school knew—and made no secret of her interest in Hermione's affairs, rushing to her aid from out of nowhere if Draco or anyone else began to harass or hurt her in the corridors. Hermione thanked her one morning, and was heartened at her teacher's reply.

"Hermione," her teacher began, pursing her lips and quirking them up into a small smile, "I may be old and I may be sad, but I daresay not _all _the fight's gone out of me yet. Most, yes, but not all. And it's been hiding for too long as it is." The older witch swept her green robes behind her in an almost Snape-like fashion as she clack-clacked her way away from Hermione and down the corridor. The young witch smiled to herself, glad to see her Head of House coming back into the personality Hermione had known for the past six years.

Hermione was surprised to receive an owl the next morning at breakfast, and even more surprised to note that it had not been opened and read by one of the castle's resident Death Eaters. _It must have come from someone inside Hogwarts, _she thought, and improbably glanced up at Snape—_of course not,_ her mind practically shouted, as he took absolutely no notice of her—_or then, could Harry or Ron have found a way to get post to me without its going past unfriendly eyes?_ Hermione slowly set down her fork and set about carefully peeling open the envelope and unfolding the paper, trying to hide what she was doing under the table so no one would take notice and possibly interrupt the first missive she'd had in weeks.

_Dear Hermione, _it read,

_I am going to do something more brave and more stupid than anything I have done since you returned to school. My apologies for not taking this step sooner._

Meet me in my office after your last class this evening.

Regards,  
Minerva McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House  


As bidden, after that evening's Herbology class Hermione dropped her books in her dormitory and hurried to Professor McGonagall's office, wondering what on Earth her professor meant by "taking a step" on Hermione's behalf.

The office was dim and Minerva was antsy when Hermione stepped through the door, pulling it shut behind her. "Professor?" the young witch queried, quirking her eyebrows up and cocking her head. "Should I be… nervous?"

McGonagall sighed. "No, dear. _I_ should be." She momentarily closed her eyes, as though what she had to say would be difficult for her to express. "I've been remiss in allowing you to be treated the way you have been of late, Hermione. I disagree strongly with the Headmaster's insistence that you be in school at this time; it can only damage you. I know you value your education, I understand that. But it's not going to count for much, not the way these buffoons are teaching it; and with every day that passes, you, my dear, are in more danger than the day before. I won't have it."

Hermione's expression was still one of puzzlement when her professor clarified her intentions. "Hermione, I want to offer you the chance to leave Hogwarts. I can take you to an Order safe house, if that is what you desire. Any fallout from that situation will, I assure you, be taken upon me; you needn't worry about what _he _may say or do."

Taking a moment to think of the consequences, Hermione found that she didn't care. _I can't stay here, _she thought, _not now that I know I have somewhere to go. I'm so damned weak but… oh, to be safe!_ Hating herself, purposefully pushing aside of the shame she would feel in front of Harry, Ron, and, yes, Snape, she nodded. "I can't thank you enough, Professor. Yes, _yes, _I want to go. I never dreamed I would feel so trapped here." _I trapped _myself _here… _"But are you certain you'll be alright? That Snape won't get to you?" The older woman raised an eyebrow at her student's casual referral to an authority figure, but smiled in a way that was more like a grimace and answered "I've got some fight left in me yet, Miss Granger. I and the other teachers at this school practically raised that man; whatever he's got in mind for me after I do this, I'd like to see him try it."

Then, Professor McGonagall pulled from her sleeve, of all things, a quill. She held it out to Hermione, keeping hold of the nib herself and extending the feather's tip. "I've a box of these in the topmost drawer of my desk, should you ever need one. They're portkeys which Mr. Shacklebolt has supplied to me, as the Floo network is not to be relied upon, these days."

Heat on her fingertips, a rush behind her navel, and then Hermione looked around herself, taking a deeper breath than she'd taken in a long time. She'd had no idea what to expect, but this… this was everything she hadn't realized she'd needed. Her eyes misted up as she breathed in the fresh, country air.

This Order safe house made Grimmauld Place seem like a dungeon. Slightly drooping and made of stone, it stood to the side of a small meadow, its grass overgrown and hedges untidy, under a willow tree to the right of a wrought-iron gate. There was a pebbled drive with, of all things, a _car, _and several outbuildings made of the same old stone the house was formed from. At the other end of the garden (if you could call it that), Hermione noted a well with a path leading to the back door of the house, denoting recent use. In the garden's farthest corner was a bench hidden in the shadow of the approaching woods, affording the residents of the house opportunities for solitude. A hill rose over one side of the hedge, and through the gate Hermione could see the pavement of a one-lane road, though no other houses were in sight.

Glancing around at McGonagall, her voice hushed in awe, she asked "Where are we?"

"Bedfordshire," answered the older witch, smiling. "Why don't we go inside? Unless I'm mistaken, there are a few people in there who'd very much like to see you."

Her heart thumping, Hermione followed where she was led. She wondered if she was about to see Harry, Ron, or both; her parents; even Crookshanks would be a welcome face. Before she could make it in the door, though, a purple-haired woman with a vast, pregnant belly came tumbling out of the door to greet the newcomers, her arms outstretched. Hermione reciprocated her hug as hard as she could while being careful of the other woman's condition.

"Tonks!"

"Hermioneeee!" squealed the metamorphmagus, holding the younger girl out at arms' length to get a look at her. "I can't believe you're here!" She bounced on the balls of her feet, clad in red Chuck Taylor Converse, and memories flooded Hermione's mind; Tonks at Grimmauld's kitchen table, her nose a duck's bill; Remus, at the same table, telling herself, Harry, and Ron that the two of them were expecting a baby. _Any day now, by the looks of it!_ realized Hermione, and she grinned while hugging her friend a second time.

Taking her hand, Tonks led her in through the kitchen door. "Please, come in!" Raising her voice, she called inside, "Molly, put the kettle on. Minerva's brought Hermione!" The latter caught a glimpse of red hair and a bright blue sweater, and smelled something sweet and appley wafting from the oven. Could this day get any better?

As it turned out, this house belonged to Remus' sister and her husband, both magical, and the Order had been given the use of it as the two of them lived and worked in America. Remus' sister had met her husband when she studied abroad at the Salem Witches' Institute, and settled there after she finished her education. Remus and Tonks lived—well, hid—in her house now, along with Tonks' mother, Andromeda, a middle-aged, plump blonde woman who seemed unable to muster up more joy than that of a watery smile; Hermione remembered she'd recently heard Tonks' father had been murdered by Death Eaters while on the run. Molly Weasley told Hermione over tea and apple tart that she came to this house—Wellfield, she called it—when Arthur was "on business." "I just can't bear to be alone in the Burrow, now," she sighed. "Not remembering the way it was with the nine of us all crammed in there." Her careworn face was wistful as she looked out the window, her cheek resting on her hand

Hermione was shown 'round the house: it was all nooks and crannies, uneven floors and cracked windowpanes, but to Hermione it was gorgeous. Someone had put flowers in jam jars on every available surface, and the baby's nursery was nearly totally prepared for him or her, with obviously-handmade decorations done by Molly, along with expensive-looking heirlooms, presumably from Andromeda. A mobile of tiny silver wolves in different poses hung above the white bassinette under the window. On impulse, Hermione quickly scanned her mind for Three Words, and was pleased to find _joyful, relieved,_ and _tired_ to be the most apt descriptors of the moment. It was the first time in weeks that, for one reason or another, _afraid _hadn't been the topmost emotion in her mind.

If only she could talk with Tonks about all of this. She surreptitiously touched her lower abdomen and wondered if she would feel as prepared as Tonks obviously did, when the time came. It would be only eight months from now… or would it be nine? She had read that pregnancy was really closer to ten months long, but she wasn't sure. There was so very much she wasn't sure about. _Don't think of it, _she commanded herself. _Even eight months is a lifetime away from today. Who knows what will happen between now and then?_

All too soon it was evening, and Hermione began to wonder where she would spend the night—the house was already packed, but she knew Molly was adept at giving you a corner of a cupboard and making it feel like an elaborate guest suite. But it was not to be. Hermione was helping Remus set the table for dinner when a smallish, portly Patronus barreled in through the window, stopping in front of Professor McGonagall, who was seated in the living room chatting with Andromeda. Hermione craned her neck around the doorframe to see it better. Upon closer inspection, it became clear that the creature was a hedgehog. Just whose it could be was clear even quicker, when a squeaky, male voice issued from it, addressing his colleague.

"You've done it now, Minerva! He wants you back an hour ago! What in the world were you thinking?—"

Professor Flitwick's voice was cut off abruptly by that of a second Patronus, which had flown in on the hedgehog's heels. It was a doe, majestic and ethereal, and Hermione was surprised to hear low, frustrated tones—tones that she knew all too well—issue from its dainty mouth. "Quiet, Filius. Minerva, my office, _now. _Bring the girl." With that, both Patronuses dissipated into the air, and the fireplace at the end of the living room blazed green: Snape had obviously opened a direct Floo line for them to use.

Professor McGonagall turned in her armchair to find Hermione already approaching her. The older witch set down her glass of cider with finality, and said on a sigh, "Damn it. _Damn _that man." She moved to stand by the fireside, and Hermione followed. "Nothing for it, dear. Let's go. And _don't _let him get to you—or at least, don't let him know he has, when he does."

Stepping into the Floo after her Head of House had spun up into the chimney, Hermione quickly found herself in a familiar setting, and alone. She blushed to think of what had happened the last time she was in this office, how close he'd stood to her, his breath on her cheek. But where was he now, and where was Professor McGonagall? Listening, Hermione realized there was an adjoining room to the office whose entrance was, from the sound of it, around a corner behind the Headmaster's desk. She started in that direction, but found it difficult to go farther than his chair—she'd always hated to break school rules, and old habits die hard—so she stood and listened for a moment as their voices came into focus.

"The child is exhausted, Severus! She's terrified! Surely it cannot be necessary for her to stay, _surely _if you just think on her feelings—"

"Gods, woman, have we met? I have _told _you my reasons. I _cannot _think on her…_feelings_"—he spat the word—"as it is not for me to decide. I have my duty to the Order to think of, as does the girl in question—" McGonagall spluttered, but he continued over her, "Yes, she's afraid. But she can handle it. She's not as soft as all that. But if _you _give her a way out, yes, she'll take it! Who wouldn't take it?! _So don't give it to her."_

McGonagall's voice sounded aghast. "And what if they kill her, Severus? What if she's not as strong as you think?" She answered herself, "Ha, but it's not as if _you _would care, is it? What's death to a man like you?"

Hermione had come partially around the corner, her feet silent on the flagstones, and they were deep in heated conversation; they hadn't noticed her presence. McGonagall's pointed hat was in her hand, her eyes ablaze; oddly enough, Snape's face looked… wounded. Pained. Hesitantly he stepped forward, a tiny motion, and his hand rose and fell without gesture. "Minerva, if you would just _talk _to me… it wasn't how you think…"

McGonagall noticed Hermione then, and drew herself up to her full height. Her voice radiated disdain. "I think we've done more than enough talking, _Headmaster. _Excuse me." Bustling through the doorway, she placed her hand around Hermione's upper arm, none too gently. "Come, Miss Granger. We wouldn't want to trouble the Headmaster any more than is necessary, would we…"

Hermione allowed herself to be steered out of the office and in the direction of her dormitory; she could feel the anger and hurt coming off Professor McGonagall in waves. Her mind was full of questions, the most pressing of which was why Snape seemed so intent on her presence in the school.

The puzzlement continued when she allowed the memory of the recent argument to congeal into a solid thing, and realized what the room was that the two staff members had been arguing in.

It was a potions lab.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: At last, Hermione's mission is revealed! It's much simpler than you all think ;)**

Also, the end of this chapter touches on a topic which is currently extremely hot in the political/religious/social climate of the US. I have not written this story to be in any way allegorical, educational, or even to "make you think." It's just a story, so please don't flame me because of what Hermione or Snape do/feel about the issue.

Not making any money from this; JKR invented everything and owns it all, lucky duck.

Halloween approached, and it turned cold at Hogwarts. Hermione was glad for the chance to hide her condition under heavy school jumpers and thicker, woolen robes. She wasn't showing yet, but she felt as though people were always looking, examining her as she hurried past the House tables in the Great Hall, her head down and hands twisting together. Did anyone actually know, or was she just paranoid?

Pregnancy didn't disagree with Hermione, though it did make her very aware of her body and how it was changing. Morning sickness wasn't an issue, except that the thought of cream in her porridge, which had previously been a must with every breakfast, made her want to run to the loo and retch. If she avoided the cream, it was smooth sailing. She tired quicker than usual, but she was sure any prying eyes—Minerva's, namely—would chalk that up to the stress of living in such a volatile environment. The dark circles under her eyes probably made her more convincing as a victim, anyway.

As the days shortened, Hermione spent many hours stretched out on her bed, her hands tracing her belly, her hips, the space beneath her breasts, the contours of her shoulders. She had another person inside her; but how could that be? She barely felt as though she belonged inside herself. In those hazy days between Shell Cottage and her missed period, she'd felt hopeful, buoyant; a baby would be a new adventure, a new facet of her own identity—Mother!—to unleash and grow into. But now that this wasn't just an idea anymore, now that she could feel it happening—she could never _not _feel it happening—she had a sinking feeling in the region of her womb which was mightily indicative of the feeling she hid from herself, a sinking in her heart, that led her to long, sleepless nights and long bouts of staring in the mirror, searching for something she could never seem to find.

It had been easier at Shell. She'd known they were at war; how could she not? But there had been this strange, diaphanous camaraderie that was somehow only heightened by the fact of that war. You never knew who would come by with presents or news, or how long they would be there. There was a delicious feeling of hiding from the enemy and knowing you were doing it well, an absurd grown-up game of hide-and-seek or capture the flag. Now, with the enemy so very close around her and with absolutely nowhere to hide, Hermione felt like an idiot. Who in the world thought wartime was a game? She'd felt elevated to a higher purpose, then. Now, she felt as though the world could hardly have space for a "higher purpose." People were too cruel to allow each other to evolve that far. What _had _she been thinking?

Tonight, Hermione donned her school robes over a maroon Weasley jumper and jeans, and set out for the seventh floor. She didn't know what she expected to find in the Room of Requirement, but wasn't it the Room's job to know that, anyway? It had occurred to her that she might possibly be able to cast spells there, since the Room seemed to have hazy rules when it came to actually being within Hogwarts' bounds or not. Maybe that secret, hidden pocket of space would somehow be able to avoid the restrictions the Death Eaters had placed on the magic of unMarked students.

Hell, if not, it's not like she was going to sleep anyway.

Soon enough the stretch of bare stone was there before her, and she smiled for a moment, remembering days of magical Galleons and secret meetings that took place right on this spot. If nowhere else, the Room was safe, even if it wasn't safe to be seen coming here. With a light heart and a feeling of greeting an old friend, she paced back and forth. _I need… I need… I just… need…_

And there was the door, cool to the touch, and she could almost feel it pulse against her fingertips as she opened it: _Welcome. _

The Room was dark and rather warmer than it had been in the past, and, though she couldn't see into the far end of it, Hermione sensed it was quite a bit smaller, too. She held her wand up—it almost felt unnatural to do so, it had been so long, and she stared down at her hand—and cast _Lumos_ experimentally. The point of light did appear on the end of her wand—_Yes!_—flickered, and waned… but it stayed lit, albeit shaky. It looked like a first-year's attempt at spellwork, but it was something.

Glancing around, Hermione saw that the Room was indeed smaller, but what caught her attention was the inert bundle on the floor, pushed up against the right wall, near a large portrait of a young woman with blonde hair. The girl was smiling in her sleep, propped against the frame—and the bundle on the floor had a shock of hair sticking one end—and it was yawning, stretching, sitting up, looking around-

"Hermione?"

She peered closer, coming forward tentatively, until she recognized him. "Oh my God. Neville?"

He smiled sleepily and gave a half-hearted little wave. "Hey."

"_Neville!"_

The Gryffindor witch was across the Room in three bounds, her curls flying out behind her. She landed with a thump on Neville's makeshift bed and hugged him tightly. His breath came out hard as she squeezed him, and he grabbed her arms, disentangling her. "Oi, let a bloke breathe!" he commanded, attempting to sound stern, but soon grabbing her into another hug and laughing. "Hermione… how are you? Merlin, I've missed you. And Harry and Ron. How are they? How are you? Are you alright here?"

Hermione finally quit hugging her friend and sat opposite him on the pile of blankets, cross-legged. She fought her robe for a minute before just pulling it off and throwing it in a corner; this was Neville, for Merlin's sake. It's not like he ever cared what she was wearing. She took a deep breath before answering.

"I've missed you, too, Nev. We all have. How are _you? _When's the last time you saw Harry or Ron? I think you might've seen them since I have."

He scratched the stubble growing thickly on his chin. _Wow, we've really grown up,_ mused Hermione, as he answered. "I've seen Ron, this past Sunday, at a meeting in the Burrow. But he was leaving as I was coming in, and we just had time for a wave across the garden. Looked alright, though. Well-fed." The young man chuckled, then added, "Bloody surprise, that, eh?" Hermione smiled at this, relieved.

Neville went on. "Harry, though… haven't seen him. Arthur made it sound like he was okay, but I can't be sure, you know? He was so vague. I'm not really in the know, much. I'm just supposed to be here every few days, in case any of the little ones want to get out." He looked into her eyes, now, and she remembered in a flash how she'd put the body-bind on him in their first year and looked into these eyes as she'd apologized. "You haven't told me about yourself, though. Are you… well?"

The witch sighed. "I'm fine, really. Bit worn down, emotionally, but you don't want to know about that. And, really, I've been—"

He layed a hand—when had his hands gotten so big?—on her arm and cut her off. "Yeah. I do," he said softly. "I _do _want to know, Hermione."

And Gods, she loved him, and she wanted to cry and shout it out. But you don't tell your male friends you love them—signals get all crossed. Even in the crazy wartime camaraderie she reveled so much in, you don't use the L word. What if he laughed at her and crushed her heart? So she settled for a squeeze of the hand on her arm and, after that, let her hand rest, half-on, half-in, his.

"Nev, do you… do you know why I'm here?" He shook his head mutely. "Well, I mean, emotionally I'm like hamburger meat. I'm _fucked, _Nev. But I'm kind of… s_upposed _to be. You see, I'm for after, Nev."

"You're… for _after? _ What do you mean?"

"Harry, Ron, you, you're all fighting so that we can win—so the Order wins. But I'm here in case we lose. I'm for next time."

His eyebrows drew together, and she could tell he hadn't let himself think about the Order losing the war for a long time—hadn't let himself go there. His voice was soft and halting as he said, "I don't really understand. Just tell me plain. You know me, Hermione, just tell me how it is."

She took a deep breath, closing her eyes. "Neville. If we lose to the Death Eaters, Harry's dead. Ron's dead or lost in mourning. You're dead." He gulped, but she plowed on. "You know it's true—you're the could-be-Harry, they'd do you in in a heartbeat." He took his hand from hers and looked away, towards the wall, but he was still listening, she knew. "Remus—gone. All the Weasleys, Aberforth, Kingsley. Anybody notable, they'll kill in a flash. You know it.

"But me… I'm just a girl concerned with my education, right? I can go to the high-ups, cry, put on a show. '_But Harry said he _liked _me! I'm just a stupid little Mudblood, please help me understand the truth. I'll be good. Dumbledore pushed his agenda on me! I didn't know!'_ Trust me, I can be manipulative as hell. I could do it. And I'd lie low, nobody would hear a peep of resistance from me, and then… ten more years, twenty maybe, I'd build another Order." Her monologue ended, and he looked at her again, his eyes blank, almost fearful. "So, it's kind of my job to be emotionally undone right now. I'm just… acclimatizing to the system. I'm not _supposed _to fight it. So I'm not."

Neville rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands, his fingers twisting his hair about in ways that looked like they would hurt him. "Hermione," he asked after a long silence, "do you think it could happen? That we'll lose?"

What she said was, "Of course not, Neville. We'll give them hell. Another year, this'll all be over." She gave him a saucy smile full of reassurance.

But under the smile, what she thought was, _God, I fucking hope not. But it's looking that way._

/-/

Hermione spent a long time thinking the next day. Her thoughts ran around her like ants—she'd catch a few, subdue them, but soon the rest would overpower her by sheer weight of numbers.

_I'm pregnant. I'm safer this way—no one would hurt a pregnant woman._

Voldemort would hurt anyone he pleases. He already does. He'd kill Harry in an instant if he could find him.

Maybe he's already dead.

He can't be! Harry and Ron and me, we'll be together forever.

Ron would hate me if he knew what I'd done, though.

I can't have a baby. I can't.

But I love it. I love it already!

If I loved it I'd realize I'd been selfish. What kind of life will it have with a Muggle-born mother? And as a bastard, at that?

I can't have a baby.

I can't get rid of it.

I can't.

And then, after much crying, the thought that maybe, just maybe, _someone _could help her. Maybe she wasn't one hundred percent alone.

_Snape has a potions lab._

/-/

Hermione rushed to his office, chewing her lip to pieces. She'd pictured herself executing this request—demand, plea, whatever—with finesse, impressing him, showing him how mature she was. But when she got there, once she stood before the gargoyle, she slowed, and felt like she'd pee herself with fear. When it asked her for the password and she stammered "I—I-um…" it groused "Well, on your head be it, not mine," and sent her up the revolving staircase, shaking in her shoes and tasting blood.

The light was improbably bright here, and belatedly she remembered how the room was always bathed in golden light at this time of the afternoon, to the point of it being blinding. He was there, seated at his desk, radiating power, and all her confidence was gone… she was at his mercy. _But he has none. _

He watched her, not angrily, not with any emotion evident on his face, really. He simply watched, and she approached, stopping behind the chair across from his and resting her hands, her shaking hands, on the back of it.

One of his eyebrows rose, ever so slowly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked finally, and she stared at the nameplate on his desk—Severus Snape, Headmaster—as she spit out unceremoniously, "I need an abortion potion." Her eyes widened at what she'd said, at hearing herself say it, and it was only then that she looked at his eyes. They were steady on hers, and he inclined his head, extending his hand to the seat she stood behind, inviting her to use it.

When she was seated, he asked her, "You could not go to Pomfrey?"

Hermione hesitated. After thinking how to express herself without being insubordinate, she replied, "Madame Pomfrey is… much changed, recently." Snape's eyes closed for a moment, and when he looked at her again, he nodded. "I have heard as much." His tone was as conciliatory as Hermione had ever heard it. "But I did not realize it was quite so bad as that." He regained his usual briskness and asked, sharply, "Slughorn, then?"

Hermione's lips pursed. "As you know, it can be disastrous if brewed incorrectly. I don't trust his abilities as I trust yours."

He seemed not to have heard the compliment. "You could not have approached McGonagall?"

She huffed, almost laughing. "Could _you _approach McGonagall for that?"

He smirked, his expression rueful. "Hmph." His black eyes rested on her a moment longer, but he didn't continue what could have become an almost playful conversation. Instead, he rose and turned rapidly toward the place she knew his lab was hidden, his robes billowing behind him, and returned quickly with a vial of orange liquid that looked, really, like the noxious cough syrup she'd taken as a child.

She questioned him with her eyes as he placed it before her and he explained, "I keep a supply in my stores. I do not wish to see things get… out of hand, in the coming days."

She nodded, not moving, and he half-sat, half-leaned on the front of the desk, looking at her like she had grown another head. He looked pointedly to the door, then back at her, and still she didn't move. _This next part will surely kill me, _she thought; still the silence stretched on. Finally, exasperated, he gestured jerkily toward the door and asked in a pinched voice, "If that is _all_, Miss Granger?..."

She closed her eyes and licked her lips. Quietly, she told him. "It's not. I… I want you to Obliviate me, too, sir. Please." Her eyes, on his, were watery, and in a whisper which was all she could manage, she added, "I don't want to remember this."

An array of emotions washed across his face in the space of five seconds—it was almost as though she could hear his thoughts, he had let his guard down so much. _That poor girl—why me?—I can't help her—can't she get a fucking grip?—I suppose it's my job to deal with shit like this—_and after opening his eyes he said with finality, "Absolutely not." She looked into his face and felt her own crumple, and realized, in some far-off part of her mind, that she must spend many nights looking into face while she dreamt, because it was beautiful to her, familiar, and not at all frightening, though yes, he was intimidating…

It must have been obvious that she was about to erupt in a fountain of tears—_surely he expects that, now that he knows I'm pregnant—_because he spoke preemptively, one hand coming up in the symbol for "stop." "You've heard me say it before. I cannot make this easy for you. I won't." He softened a bit, but kept going. "It is… regrettable, this turn of events, Granger. But you must retain the character that is being built up in you. If I make it easy, if I take away the… pain…" he couldn't look at her, now, "you'll lose the hardness that is being cultivated in you, and that is what you need to have above all other things." He swallowed. "Resilience."

He moved to the chair behind his desk and sat down again, and she knew she was truly being dismissed, this time. She was pushing her thoughts out at him as hard as she could—_but it's going to _hurt! He refused to look at her or respond, and finally, the tears truly falling, she took the potion he'd left on the desk and turned to go.

Her hand on the doorknob, he stopped her_,_ and she had a moment of déjà vu. His voice rang out and she turned as he asked her, in a tone that suggested they were talking of some meaningless issue of politeness, "Things of this nature have rather delicate implications in Pureblood society, Miss Granger, so if you would not mind telling me, insofar as you know, who the responsible party is in this matter?" She stared blankly, but he didn't look up from the papers before him. He signed his name in a flourish and flipped another paper over, clarifying, "The young man who put you in this state?"

She knew she would shock him, and got a thrill from it. Her voice didn't shake now.

"It's Bill Weasley's."

Snape's head snapped up, his features bearing a look of pure incredulity. He slowly, deliberately, placed his quill down, his eyes wide on hers, and gestured again to the chair in front of him.

"You will tell me everything."

**OOooooh snap! Snappity snap snap SNAP!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter will probably surprise people. Hell, it surprised *me*!**

Thank you all for the lovely reviews. Really, it means the world to hear what you think of my efforts!

Not JKR, not making any money.

Hermione reseated herself and forced her hands to stop twisting together in her lap. She'd said, not long ago, that she'd never be afraid of him, but so much had happened in the time between then and now that she was, above all, confused. Severus Snape had, for six years, been an aloof and sometimes cruel teacher to her; then, a month ago, he'd facilitated the most erotic moment of her life. Then, he'd held her, healed her, made her feel… _loved…_ only to ignore her afterwards _and _start showing up in her vivid, hormonally-fueled dreams. She had no _idea _how she felt about him, or how much she could trust him.

_Alright, Hermione, get ahold of yourself. You may be confused as hell, but you don't have to act scared. He'll think less of you for it._

She took a deep breath and looked up at him—well, to the left of him, noticing in her peripheral vision that he seemed to be giving her his full attention; also, that he seemed extremely on edge. How best to put it?

A sigh escaped her lips before she began. "Um…" _Oh, brilliant start, Hermione, very eloquent! _ She cleared her throat and made another attempt. "I'm, er, I've never explained any of this out loud, sir. Truthfully, I haven't even explained it in too much detail to myself, so, it, um, might be a bit jumbled." She chanced a look at him.

He looked _bored. _

_That's just Snape, _she reassured herself. _He's only got two settings, and better bored than I'm-going-to-murder-you-and-enjoy-myself-doing-it._

"Okay. So. You, of course, know why I'm here at school." The blurry figure at the edge of her vision nodded, and she plowed on. "Well, Dumbledore's plans are great and all, but, going into this, I had one thought: '_That's great, Professor, but Voldemort's not _you.' I mean, just because I'm small and quiet and pretty much useless at fighting doesn't mean he'd spare me. He'd probably kill me for sport, really, and, call me crazy, but I don't really fancy going out that way."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, and his silky voice rumbled, "Go on."

Another sigh. "Well, I thought, he'll snuff me for sure. _But, _surely if it comes to that it'll be after some epic battle, meaning there will be casualties on both sides. So, I thought, get myself pregnant and then, if Voldemort's got me and it looks like the end, I can claim it's a Death Eater's. A fallen Death Eater's, I mean. I could claim he forced me, or we had some secret thing going on—or even that I was using him for information. I could claim s_omething. _ Of course, no one would believe me—but they couldn't definitively prove I was lying, so they'd have no choice. Surely Pureblood honor prohibits the killing of a fallen comrade's heir… or… something like that. I never _really _thought it through. I was sort of… shooting from the hip, I guess."

Still without fully looking at him, Hermione saw him drop his head into his hands for just a moment, then recover himself. She noticed that she was actually breathing evenly, which surprised her, and mentally patted herself on the back for not letting his presence scare her too badly.

Finally, after a long moment, he asked, "And you expect me to believe Mr. Weasley simply jumped at the chance to dishonor his bride of less than half a year?"

Hermione jumped, and did look at him, then, right in the eye. His jaw was jutting out slightly in anger. _Shit, I've seen that look before. _ She answered him, "No-no! It wasn't like that. Bill's not—he wouldn't! He's too—"

Snape rolled his eyes and cut her off. "Spare me the accolades," he drawled sarcastically. "I have known the man since he was a boy, and I taught him for seven years. I'm aware of his character." His eyes narrowed and he continued, "So explain yourself, Granger. You may be _lovely_—" and his eyes roamed over her in a way that was both mocking and frankly sexually appraising—"but I don't see him leaving everything he's got for the chance to bed you." He smirked and cut her to the core. "Whose is it really? Potter's? The youngest Mr. Weasley's? Malfoy's, maybe?"

Her face betrayed her pain, she knew, but she made the decision not to hide it from him. "_It's Bill's_," she ground out, "and he has no idea. I just—I put him under Somnambul and I—I mean, there had to be physical contact, obviously, but I used my wand to get the job finished and—hell, he was _asleep!" _ She was panting by the time she finished, and acutely aware of how very bad it all sounded. Snape's eyes were positively blazing and, in a show of more feeling than he usually displayed, his hands were gripping the lip of his desk. Hermione stumbled over her next words. "I—couldn't do that to Harry or Ron, you know, and the only other males in the house were Griphook, Mr. Ollivander"—she grimaced—"and Dean, and since none of the more prominent Death Eaters are black, I couldn't use him…" her voice faded, and she heard herself. _I couldn't _use _him…_

Snape stared at her for a long, long moment, his throat working, and she saw him pull his wand from his sleeve and hold it in his long fingers, attempting to appear nonchalant about it but, she knew, debating whether or not to use it. When he spoke, it was barely a whisper.

"Hermione Granger," he asked, "are you telling me you _raped _Mr. Weasley?"

Hermione shot to the edge of her seat, her hands gripping the armrests, and shouted "No!" with so much force that Snape had the decency to look shocked, but then she considered his question, and it only took a second before she began to hyperventilate. "I… did, didn't I? Oh, shit, oh, _fuck! _ No—I never—it wasn't—I didn't—shit, _shit!—" _

Because never, not once in all the drama of being on the run and coming back to Hogwarts, had _that _word entered her mind to describe what she'd done. Rape was something that happened to unfortunate poor girls in back alleys, rape involved tears and shouting, fists and, in the Wizarding world, Dark spells. But she knew Snape was right.

He was looking at her as though he had a horrific stench in his nose. In the same low tone, he told her, "I can barely conceal my distaste for you right now. It would be impossible if I hadn't cultivated the ability when forced to spend time with so many like you in the Dark Lord's service."

She gaped and choked on her tears… because he was right. He was so, so right.

Rapidly she wiped her eyes and started for the door, and his low tone was replaced by a shout of command: "Sit your manipulative arse back down." Her cheeks stung, her eyes still swimming, and she complied.

When she recovered herself she saw that the Headmaster seemed to have calmed himself down unusually quickly, but, as he said, he did have many hours of practice when it came to concealing how he truly felt. His voice was civil, but barely so, when he next spoke. Hermione stared at her hands, as ashamed now as she had ever been in her life.

"You have made several grave miscalculations, Miss Granger, and I will not let you neglect to repair matters as best you can. Tell me, how much _do _you know about Pureblood convention concerning reproduction and Blood rights?"

Hermione's only reply was to purse her lips and shake her head, still weeping, imploring him with her eyes.

He hissed, an odd sound of dark mirth and triumph. "At last," he exulted, "the know-it-all is at a loss. How… unexpected."

_Except that he _knows _I'm Muggle-born, and he _knows _I wouldn't know shit about that. Why didn't _I _realize I didn't know shit about that?!_

Snape continued, "It is obvious to me that you have realized your error in judgment concerning the scruples of the Dark Lord and his followers. As you have no doubt worked out for yourself by now, they _would _assume you are lying about your offspring's parentage, but they wouldn't kill you on the spot, as you supposed when you began all this depravity. Oh, no. They'd drag it out. They'd probably let you live long enough to deliver the child, get attached to it, and then…" she looked at him, her expression begging him to stop, and maybe he did have a bit of mercy, because he did. "Suffice it to say, it would be most unpleasant for you."

"Yes," she said lamely, and, picking up the vial of potion from the desktop, looked at it, and back to him. "So, I came for this…"

"Indeed. You came to find a solution. And, if you'd had your fun with a nameless Muggle or some drunken ne'er-do-well, I'd wish you well and have done with you. _However,_ you happen to have chosen a good man to inflict yourself upon. A man who _is _of Pure blood, whether he cares for it or not, and _that _is something you cannot understand, Granger." He steepled his fingers, and his voice adopted the tone he had used for Potions lectures in the past. "The Weasley family belongs to a culture, and it is not yours. They may fight against aspects of it, but it is the culture they all spring from. Abortion does _not happen _in that community. If you do this to Bill Weasley, even if he is not aware, you shame him greatly. I can assure you, no member of that family, as forward-thinking as they are, would ever condone throwing away a developing child, and they would be incensed if said child was of their own blood. If you care for them at all, you cannot do this to them."

One long forefinger traced his lips as watched Hermione wrestle with herself. She gripped the potion tightly in one hand and with the other she gripped her hair, debating with herself, berating herself. After a moment, she looked into his eyes and asked, her voice wild, "But then what am I supposed to do? If I complete the pregnancy there is the chance I'll die in unspeakable horror—or, if we win, I'll have explaining to do that I simply won't be able to—and if I terminate I'll never be able to look any of the Weasleys or Harry in the eye ever again and I'll be totally alone—Gods, what am I supposed to _do?!"_

"You will tell them," the dark wizard replied, "that it is my doing. You will be safe that way, whatever the outcome of the war."

"But—but what if _you _die? What then?" Her voice was small, and he must have known she was afraid, but he showed her no hint of pity.

"It's not my absence you should fear, girl," he answered severely. "Rest assured, I am not going to die. But you've marked yourself as my property, now… and I assure you, you have no idea what you've let yourself in for."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Oh, Hermione, you dummy. Gettin' everybody's lives all effed up. Tsk, tsk.**

Not JKR, not making any money.

Hermione couldn't eat dinner after her conversation with Snape. She returned to her dormitory and fell, without undressing, into bed, where she tossed and turned into the wee hours of the morning without ever actually sleeping. After several hours of fierce weeping she was borne aloft on a hazy cloud of pain, confusion, and hysteria, which she didn't leave until, at four a.m. By that time she had to pee so badly that she was forced to stop and double up on her way to the bathroom, where, after relieving herself, she retched helplessly into the toilet wondering when her body was going to realize there was nothing to bring up.

The next morning she looked like hell, and she knew it. She pulled her hair into a low ponytail and changed only her shirt and skirt before going to the Great Hall to sit and watch the others eat breakfast; there was no way she'd be able to keep anything down if she attempted it.

Once seated, she glanced up at the High Table and saw that Professor McGonagall had been observing her entrance. The professor gave Hermione an intent look that plainly asked "Are you alright?," and Hermione returned the woman's regard with a look that, she knew, must be the look puppies gave after they'd been kicked for no reason. McGonagall continued to look worried, but Hermione ignored her and turned her focus back to her spoon, which she was stirring listlessly through her tepid porridge. She'd even put cream in it, because… why the fuck not?

When the post came Hermione had another letter, dropped carelessly half-into her breakfast by a grouchy Hogwarts owl with half its feathers missing. Not caring this time whether anyone else saw the contents—_they'll think me lower than dirt in a day or two at any rate—_she stuck her finger under the flap by the black wax seal and popped it open, unfolding it and putting her elbows on the table to read it, too exhausted to care how uncouth she looked.

She read,

_Come to my office in lieu of your first class._

S.S.

How to feel about this? Excited? Afraid? For so long she'd fantasized about her dark professor, imagined a hundred scenarios in which she had a reason to spend time alone with him. Before she'd returned to school for the Order, she hadn't spent sixty seconds alone with the man, having never received a detention except two or three spent with Hagrid over the years. When Professor Snape would pass her in a deserted hallway, or come around a shelf in a far-off corner of the library, Hermione's heart would skip a beat, and she'd lose herself for a moment in thoughts of him stopping his course, coming right up to her, backing her into the nearest obstacle and…

_Oh, fuck all that,_ she thought blandly. _First time it actually happens I'm up the spout and so tired I'm seeing double. Oh, and I'm a rapist. This is my life. _She clenched her fists, hidden under the tabletop.__

When only ten or so students were left in the Hall, and even they were gathering their books and laughing as they ran to make it to class, Hermione stood mechanically and, her eyes on the ground, made her way to the Headmaster's office. But as she passed the nearest lavatory to her destination, she ducked inside, splashed water on her face, and realized something. _I am not benefiting anyone by looking, feeling, or acting like an invalid. I am powerful. The Order trusts me so much that they believe I could be the next Albus Dumbledore if it comes to that. _ She squared her shoulders and reminded herself that she was strong—not looking her best at the moment, but strong. Just as she'd done when she'd found out the Minister was coming to the school, she mentally shouted to the Universe, _bring it._

_I'm ready._

This time the gargoyle must have been apprised of her impending arrival, because her path was not blocked and when the staircase carried her up, she found she didn't even need to knock. The door was slightly open, waiting for her to enter. Professor Snape was pacing, his hands behind his back; she remembered yesterday's assessment that the man had two settings, and he was definitely running on the second one now.

She stopped in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, and he noticed her presence, immediately coming to a halt. "Hello, sir," she said softly, stifling a yawn which she hoped had escaped his notice. "You sent for me?"

He stopped pacing where he was, but didn't look at her. "I did," he acknowledged to the room, and then walked towards the fireplace, where a few embers burned. "Come," he snapped, not turning to see if she obeyed or not. "We're going to my quarters. All of _this _doesn't need to be discussed where anyone who knows the password could barge in."

Gods, his quarters! This was more than she could ever have hoped for, and here she was, unwashed and washed up. _That and he made it pretty clear last time that I absolutely disgust him. Right._

He waited at the hearth for her to enter before him, and she felt him, nearly as close as he'd been when they'd Apparated here together, taking the Floo powder down off the mantle, stepping in after her, and calling out their destination. After a tense, spinning moment, they landed, coughing, in his fireplace, and Hermione looked around to see her Headmaster's quarters. The room was surprisingly normal, and not at all a Slytherin-green-and-silver showroom like she'd expected.

Snape strode out into his living space and Hermione followed mutely. Passing the couch, he jerked his hand out from his side and pointed at it, so Hermione sat, watching him as he passed into another room and quickly returned with a book in one hand and his wand in the other.

"What's…" she began to ask, but his icy glare silenced her and she simply looked at the book, waiting for him to explain. "It's a compendium of spells concerning… pregnancy." He said the last word with obvious effort, and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. She heard him whisper harshly under his breath, "Honestly, why the fuck I'm dealing with this I don't know." __

He came before her and she stared at his black-clad knees as he cast five or six spells over her like she was an inanimate object. Pocketing his wand, he grunted, "Child's alive," and then, as if he was speaking of the weather, "it's a boy." He looked at her face, and, seeing her teary eyes—_a son!—_his expression turned mocking; he spread his hands and gave a falsely cheery smile, saying "Congratulations!" before turning away and continuing to pace, running his hands through his midnight hair.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered, and looked down at her midriff. _So you're a boy in there, are you? Hi, little man._ She felt emboldened when reminded that she was capable of creating life, and called out to Snape's back, "You know, I actually do know a bit about genetics—" he snorted—"and there's next to no chance he'll have red hair. It shouldn't be terribly obvious he's not yours."

He turned back to her, his face stony. "I have a fucking doctorate degree in potions," he said, his lips trying to draw back over his teeth, "so, believe it or not, I've read a bit on the subject myself. _Insolent," _he added in a whisper, and, seeming to consider something, began to stalk toward her, his voice turning silky as he told her, "Stand up."

Her eyes grew wide and—_really, _now _of all moments?!—_she felt herself grow wet at the predatory look on his face. A few paces with his long legs and he was so close to her that she was sure he could hear her heart pounding, and then she thought for sure that her knees would buckle as he pulled the hem of her shirt from the waistband of her skirt. He undid first one button, then two, starting from the bottom. His fingers worked painstakingly slowly, and his eyes held hers mercilessly, though not exactly cruelly.

She stared wordlessly up into those black eyes, and he regarded her face with intense scrutiny. One of his large, rough hands stole under the fabric of her shirt to rest against her stomach, touching her first with his fingertips before opening his hand to put his palm flat against her skin. She swallowed thickly, and he whispered, "I'm going to have to touch you if we're to do this convincingly, you know." His hand moved across her abdomen while the other came up to the back of her neck, tilting her head up so that their eyes had no choice but to stay fixed each on the other's. "Tell me you know, Hermione," and she bit her lip and closed her eyes, whispering, "I know, sir. I know you'll have to touch me. It's alright."

"Look at me," he said roughly, and jerked her against him, but as soon as her eyes were on his again he relaxed his grip and his voice resumed its silky timbre. "Say my name," he breathed, but didn't he know she couldn't say a word, only breathe deeply and get lost in the blackness of his eyes? "Say it, Hermione," he urged, and then, his mouth quirking up as he teased her, he asked, "Hear me, Hermione? Hear me saying yours? _Hermione," _he purred, dipping his mouth to her neck and coming back up, leaving her silently begging for more with her hands clenching on the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes danced as he watched her, barely able to hold herself together.

_He's enjoying himself,_ she realized, and she heard his voice clear as a bell in her mind, _Oh, yes, I am._

She turned her head to the side and squeezed her eyes shut; tried her vocal chords and got only a moan for her efforts, which elicited a dark chuckle from the Headmaster. Finally, looking back at him with a pleading expression—_don't make me, I can't do it!—_she said, in a voice that sounded as though she was being tortured, "…Severus…" Her eyes rolled and she had to come closer than ever to him, gripping him all the harder. Gods, he was hard and strong and his hands burned against her and-__

She embarrassed herself by plopping down on the couch, then. Her body had found his attention too thrilling given her current state of sleeplessness, and reality had nearly spun away. After the sunspots died behind her eyelids she looked up at him, watching her, motionless.

He pursed his lips in that expression which was so characteristic of him, and she could tell that he was now carefully hiding how much he'd enjoyed tormenting her just now. He was adjusting his mask, attempting to look bored again. His hand—had his hands really done that to her?- gestured to the length of the sofa. "It seems you got as much sleep as I did last night," he told her. "Get some rest; you're excused from class today. I've called an Order meeting tonight at Wellfield, and you'll need your strength to bear the reactions when I tell them the news."

Having set that terrifying prospect before her, he bid her good day and left her to sleep. Her body and mind continued their evil game from the night before, but only for so long; the tossing and turning soon ceased as pure, intoxicating exhaustion took over and sleep claimed her.

**Mean Snape! Don't you know teenage girls with crushes can't handle your pure eroticism? Oh, wait… you probably *do* know. Hehe.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Thank you all for the lovely reviews. They truly do make me happy.**

Not JKR, not making any money. 

The sun was low in the sky when Hermione next opened her eyes. For a moment she glanced around the room, blinking and wondering where she was, and then she remembered: Snape's quarters. _Severus' quarters, now_, she amended. _I can barely say that to him alone, let alone in a group of people. In front of the Order. Oh, Merlin, I don't even want to think about the reactions…_

Hermione stood up and began to fold the blanket that had been placed over her as she slept. She smiled briefly; maybe the man wasn't such a monster as he'd like her to think. Looking around the room more fully, she jumped—he was seated in an armchair towards the other end of the room, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle and a thick book spread open over the armrest. He was watching her.

She gestured down to the blanket she'd placed on the back of the sofa. "I, um—thank you," she said lamely, and he nodded silently. She chewed her lip and questioned him with her eyes. "What happened earlier… is that how we're going to play it? That this was a…" she nearly said, "love thing," but stopped herself. Trying again, she managed "Are there are feelings involved?"

He swallowed and answered perfunctorily, "You were scared. I was lonely and sex-starved. I made you feel safe." He drew in a deep breath, shaking his head. "It happened right after you came here, or else the timing will be off." Rising, he straightened his robes and gestured her toward a door which logically must lead into a bathroom. "Freshen up. We want the Order to think you're well."

Hermione took only a minute, splashing water on her face and running her fingers through her curls. When she joined him by the fireplace so they could Floo to Wellfield, he gave her a cutting look before she stepped into the flames and said, "Don't fuck this up for me, Granger."

They Flooed into the middle of chaos. By Hermione's quick estimation there were about twenty-five people in the old house's small living room, and she could see more through the doorway to the kitchen. The smell of something delicious and decidedly meaty was on the air, and just as soon as she and Snape had had time to brush the soot off their clothes, the group was being ushered into the kitchen where a few people had room to sit at the table, but most took their plates and sat where they could throughout the downstairs of the house. A few even sat on the steps leading into the garden, talking around mouthfuls of roast chicken while the sun went down over the grassy hillside.

Tonks stopped to hug Hermione on her way to the steps, and Remus squeezed her shoulder; Neville showed up late and swept her up in a hug; and Kingsley offered her a formal handshake, which really was quite friendly for the stoic man.

Hermione was one of the lucky few at the table, along with Fred, George, Arthur, Molly, Andromeda, Snape, and Emmeline Vance, whom Hermione knew by sight but had never spoken to in more than passing. Conversation was warm but sparse as the group ate; Snape, of course, remained silent.

And then Ron came in.

He had obviously Flooed as well, because he had a long smear of soot down one cheek and, when he stopped in the doorway to stare at her, had his balled hand raised to his mouth to cough. He ceased the movement mid-breath and stared at Hermione, and she stared back, her fork poised between plate and mouth. She felt Snape go unnaturally still at her side. Ron's mouth slowly curled into a smile, and, breaking free of whatever spell he was under, he rushed over to her, glee evident in his every stride. He bent half-over to hug her from behind, burying his face in her neck and thoroughly embarrassing her.

"Hermione," he breathed, and Hermione thought that maybe, with the way his hands were squeezing her sides, that this display of affection would have been better suited if they were more than friends.

Arthur noticed Hermione's sheepish face and cleared his throat. "Nice to see you, too, son," he said jokingly, and Ron laughed and moved around the table to hug his parents. "Oh, I love you, Ronald!" Molly exclaimed in front of everyone, kissing his cheek and causing him to blush. Then, in true Molly fashion, she pointed over her shoulder to the sideboard and told her son, "You've got about ten minutes until the meeting starts, so grab a plate now, quickly!" Of course Ron needed no more prompting than that, and he grinned at Hermione again, telling her "We'll talk after, yeah?"

_He'll probably never talk to me again, _she thought dismally. It was hard to smile and nod when she almost certainly knew the way he'd react; the way his face would fall. When she knew that what she really should be telling him tonight was, "You're going to be an uncle," not "I slept with the man you hate most in the world."

Snape had not spoken to Hermione since they'd arrived, though he stuck to her side, protectively or possessively she didn't know. He spoke to no one, actually, other than curt greetings to most Order members and the warm (for him) handshakes he'd given Arthur and Molly. He even said "Thank you for opening your home" to Remus, but not once in all of this did he look at Hermione. He seemed to steer her through the crowd without touching her; she was constantly aware of his presence, his warmth behind her, and how if she stopped walking he might bump into her, his front against her back. _Don't be ridiculous, Hermione, _she berated herself for her untoward thoughts. _The man has reflexes a cat would be jealous of._

Soon everyone was finished eating; forks clinked on bare plates and people began to pile their dishes in the sink and move without direction to stand in the living room, the couches being reserved for the elderly and Tonks, due to her pregnancy. Now Snape did use his hand to steer Hermione, and if anyone thought it was odd they didn't show it. Holding her by the shoulder, he walked to a squashy armchair and mutely pushed down; she obediently sat. A few people did shoot them questioning looks at that, but Hermione avoided their eyes, and when confronted by Snape's icy glare those people quickly found other things to look at.

When everyone was seated, Arthur gave a cheerful, puzzled look around the room. The period of silence stretched so long as to be awkward, and finally he looked toward the two of them, over Hermione's head at Snape and asked, spreading his hands, "Well, Severus… what _is _the mysterious reason you've called us here for?"

All Hermione could think was, _Oh Merlin, he's going to be blunt, he's going to be blunt-_

And, sure enough, from behind her chair his smooth voice said without preamble, "I called you here to inform you that Hermione is expecting."

Arthur's face, for a moment, retained both its puzzlement and cheer. "Ex…pecting?" he asked. "What is she expecting?" _Oh, you silly, great sod. _ Then the truth registered and a storm gathered on his friendly brow quicker than Hermione would have believed possible. "Not… Severus, what is the meaning of this? Hermione can't be…"

The fatherly man looked at her, and she found she couldn't meet his eyes. She stared at her shoes, scrubbing the toe of one against the other, and heard Molly ask in a hesitant tone, "Do we know who… who it belongs to?"

And Snape's sneer, evident even through his voice: "Just how unguarded do you think I am with her, Molly? The child is mine, of course."

In a matter of seconds the room was drowned in a deafening uproar.

Cries of shock rose from every corner of the room. Kingsley was berating Snape, tearing his character down with shouted taunts; Hermione looked up to see two large men physically holding the African man back. Minerva looked positively aghast, her hand against her heart, and Andromeda had put her arm around the Scots witch, whispering some comfort in her ear. Molly and Arthur were shouting, too, asking Snape if he had no thought for Hermione's safety, for keeping her unharried in her condition; Neville looked as though he might cry, and clenched his fists and paced, gesticulating, attempting to keep a hold on his emotions.

And then there was Ron, who stared mutely at Hermione, a look on his face as though he'd never met her—or as though he wished he hadn't. His hangdog look never faded as he wordlessly took out his wand and walked, feet dragging, to the kitchen. He Disapparated without giving her another glance.

While the battle raged on, Minerva stood, slowly and with a look of utmost pain on her face. The Order fell silent when she was erect, and swayed where they stood, still reeling. Her voice was low and even, and her bloodshot eyes looked to the Headmaster of her beloved school as though she were afraid of him. "And are you going to marry her, Severus? Is that what's to happen, then? What this is all about?"

Snape let out a deep breath and replied just as evenly, "No, Minerva. That is not what is going to happen."

The crowd started up again, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and hunkered down farther into her chair. "Did he force you?" they were shouting at her. "Did you want it?" She could only stare, her lip quivering.

Snape's voice rose and he came to sit on the armrest of her chair, putting his hand on her shoulder again. "I am not without care for her," he told the assembly, and they sneered and snarled and Hermione wished she could die. "She will stay here, for her safety. For the safety of our offspring."

And so it was decided, and Hermione hadn't even opened her mouth.

One by one they departed, muttering; the Apparitions were like gunshots in Hermione's ears. She was conscious of the fact that Neville had come to hold her hand; Snape had gone into another room with Arthur, speaking rapidly and in low tones. Minerva shot Hermione a sad, hopeless look—the same look Hermione knew she herself had given just yesterday at breakfast. Neville saw the exchange and squeezed Hermione's hand, but soon he himself had to leave, and Hermione was left alone, a scarlet "A" on her chest and a ripping pain beneath it.

She moved to the couch and laid down on it, one arm thrown up to cover her eyes. After five minutes—or was it an hour?—she heard the shuffle of a person entering the room, and let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding when she recognized the voice.

"Hermione?" he asked tentatively.

"Hello, Professor Lupin," she answered quietly, and moved to sit up beside him as she felt his weight dip the other end of the couch.

The older man was regarding her seriously, his grey-blue eyes searching out her own. "I'm hardly that to you anymore, Hermione," he said kindly, a small smile playing around his full mouth. "You know I haven't taught anyone anything in years."

She looked back at him, and found that she had no trouble holding his gaze. "I'm sure that's not true," she replied kindly, and then, "Congratulations on the baby, if I haven't said."

His warm hand reached out toward her stomach, and she pulled in the muscles there but didn't stop him. "The same to you," he replied, and they both looked down at his fingertips, resting lightly against her. She had no hint of a bump yet, and the sight seemed to wake both of them up out of their dreamy state.

"I've known, you know," he told her, and her eyebrows drew together as she gestured down to where his hand had been. "You… you knew? How long? How?"

He tapped the side of his nose with an index finger. "Since Minerva brought you here that first time," he replied. "The wolf in me knew. Your scent has changed."

She considered this, her fingers toying with the hem of her skirt. She looked up at the werewolf again and hesitantly inquired "Does it…" she bit her lip. "Do I smell like Snape?"

Lupin paused before answering. "You smell… adult," he told her, and she blinked, suddenly aware of their proximity and difference in sex.

His warm voice grew taut, and he reached his purpose in the conversation. "I have to know, Hermione. Did he hurt you?"

The young witch shook her head, her eyes steady on his. "No, he didn't… Remus," she answered, trying out his name for the first time. "I swear he didn't. It just… happened."

The man turned away and then stood up, telling her, not unkindly, "It's your own business." Then, turning back briefly at the door, he said, "We're glad to have you here, Hermione."

She gave him a wan smile, laid down again, and slept as soon as her head hit the pillow. Andromeda came in the night and covered her with a quilt; Hermione didn't stir.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Sorry about the delay again. I have a baby and a very young puppy… you're lucky this chapter is even intelligible. :p**

I hope you enjoy!

Hermione woke with a start and didn't realize where she was. She swung her legs over the side of the couch, got tangled up in the blanket that had been placed on her, and swore. A voice spoke from the corner:

"Nice to see you, too." It was wry and heavy, as though the speaker were tired herself, but slightly playful, too. Peering closer through the dawn light, Hermione saw Tonks' mother seated in a shadowed armchair, her knitting still on her lap. _Perhaps she'd been dozing?_

As if in answer, Andromeda Tonks stretched in place as old people do, and matter-of-factly said, "I don't sleep much since they killed my Ted." Hermione's eyebrows shot up, but she nodded. Then Andromeda took a longer look at her and asked frankly, "Merlin, girl, would you like to bathe?"

Hermione felt worlds better after a hot shower. She combed her hair so it could air-dry, brushed her teeth, looked surreptitiously around (_as though someone's going to see me? _she laughed at herself) before stealing a bit of the facial moisturizer that was beside the sink. While she'd been showering, someone had left her a nondescript pair of jeans, a navy blue tee-shirt, and plain white undergarments on the commode and taken her school clothes away. She donned the outfit and went in search of coffee; she made it halfway to the kitchen before she heard _his _voice and paused outside the room, hoping to hear what sort of mood he was in. _Really mature, Hermione. Spying on the spy._ She wondered if he had even gone back to the school through the night, or if he'd stayed here at Wellfield.

She was pressed against the wall just to the right of the doorway, out of his line of sight, but his preternatural senses won out for the thousandth time. When he stopped speaking, Hermione expected him to call out her name or bark an order at her; instead, he put his head through the door, stared right at her, arched an eyebrow, and said, "Excuse us, please, Remus." Hermione was confused until she heard the door to the back garden slam; he'd been talking to Lupin and he had apparently apprised the werewolf ahead of time that Hermione and he would need to have words, quite alone, when she appeared. "Sit," he commanded, and disappeared back into the kitchen, returning with a large satchel. Hermione obeyed, watching him warily.

"I'll not let your mind go to waste," Snape told her. "I want you to study, though I know you'd do that even if expressly forbidden." Closing his eyes, he muttered, "You're probably much better off here than in that stinkhole of a school, where your education is concerned." Hermione gave him a half-smile, but he wasn't looking, so she quietly told him, "I will, sir. Study, that is," and that shook him out of his reverie, provoking both a lip-purse and an eye-roll of epic proportions.

"You'll need these," he said without inflection, unceremoniously dumping the satchel beside her on the couch. She looked up to him with her hands on the closure and he nodded—opening it, she found it contained all of her books- her textbooks, notebooks, the few old tomes she'd checked out of the library for research, even her journal—which he obviously had retrieved from her dormitory while the other students were in class. _Or perhaps he stormed right in there while Lavender and Parvati were combing their hair and giggling about boys after curfew, and scared them senseless. _While his back was turned she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and stifled her mirth, but the image just kept replaying, making her want to laugh all the more.

Until he turned back to her. His face was a thunderstorm.

Hermione was still deeply conscious of her behavior on the previous day, and, for that matter, the fact that it was her non-Order-approved behavior that put them—_him—_into this position at all. He studied her, up and down, but not at all sensually, as on the previous afternoon. He simply looked at her as though she were a problem he was perfectly capable of solving in an instant, but truly didn't wish to waste his time on.

When he spoke, his voice was soft. "I hope you realize how truly selfish you've been."

And she breathed, and spoke back, a calmness rising out of someplace she didn't know she'd been hiding it. "I hope you realize I hurt badly enough already that I don't need you to add to the pain."

He stared, and she thought he might understand; he had been young once, and done immensely stupid things under the influence of passion and power. But if he felt anything at all towards her, he didn't show her—his face remained unmoving, expressionless, as did hers. Finally he turned away, and she breathed again.

Snape's hands ran through his hair, a gesture that Hermione was coming to associate with stress in the dark wizard. She rose and took a step towards him, to… what? Lay a hand on his back, or… she didn't know. But she only took the one step before his voice rang out. "Stop," he commanded, and she did, instantly, and when he turned back to her he was perfectly composed, perfectly Professor-Snape-in-the-Potions-classroom as he'd been for half her life. "The Lupins will teach you where hands-on instruction is required. I have spoken to them and they've informed me they're up to the task." _Remus is probably thrilled to teach again, and I'm honored; Tonks, well, she's probably just glad for something to _do. "I'll be coming by several times a week, late. I want you to…" he faltered, and she questioned him with her eyes. He took a breath, swallowing, and his eyes darted from her face to her neck back up to her eyes, where they rested with intensity. "I want you to make wise decisions from now on," he said gravely, and she nodded. "Begin to consider others, Miss Granger; you're no longer a child." He looked pointedly at her abdomen and turned to go, but she stopped him, her voice sounding far more secure than she felt inside.

"Sir?" He stopped, but didn't turn. "Will you teach me Legilimency? I'll need it." A hand came up to his face, then fell again; and he answered quietly "Yes. But don't badger me; I'll do it in my own time."

A swirl of black robes, and he was gone.

Hermione spent the late morning and early afternoon doing household chores; it felt only right to help out with the mundane, everyday tasks that were involved in running a house, especially since, at Hogwarts, she couldn't help even if she wanted to: the elves would pitch a fit and roll in it. After helping Molly can pear preserves she'd made—and Wizard pressure-canning was certainly an adventure—she helped Lupin degnome the garden. Neither of them spoke about the conversation they'd had the night before, and, keeping the conversation light by some unspoken agreement, they found it easy to laugh and talk normally together. Molly treated Hermione as though she were fragile and easily upset, which Hermione was oddly grateful for, though it would have galled her only a few short weeks ago. _At least _someone _understands that this is actually difficult for _me. The curly-haired witch realized that she missed her own parents more than she had thought, and was happy to have Molly as a surrogate mother for the time being. She surely missed her own children, so it worked out well for the both of them.

Hermione didn't see Tonks all through this, and began to wonder if the woman was avoiding her. After she'd glanced around for the hundredth time, Remus gently informed her, "Tonks went in to the Auror Office today. She's… she's had a bit of a shock, Hermione, and she needs to decompress. She's not angry at you, but she is hurt, and she's more tender-hearted than people realize. She just needs a bit to gather herself after an announcement like last night's." Considering the subject matter, he raised his eyebrows and asked her, "Feeling alright, in that regard?" and Hermione laughed and answered in the affirmative.

"What's so funny?" the older wizard asked her, his good-natured face betraying confusion but attempting to go along with her happiness.

"Oh, Merlin, Remus," she giggled, "It's just that you're cooped up in Gods-know-where with two old ladies and two pregnant women. Please, let them _never _say you didn't do anything for the Cause!" The werewolf grinned, and Hermione thought of his friend who had also been confined to home for a while. Sitting down in the grass, Hermione patted the ground beside her, motioning Remus to sit. "Would Sirius have been happier here, do you think?" she asked him. "Able to go outside and all?"

Taking a spot beside her, Remus answered in complete seriousness, "Sirius would have made those allegations of murder true if he were in my position." He looked so serious for a moment, and a bit sad at the memory of his childhood mate, but then his mouth slowly curled up and soon Hermione was in fits of giggling again.

Shortly before dinner, Hermione crossed the garden to sit alone on the secluded wooden bench hidden at the edge of the woods. She'd been listening to the birdsong and breeze in the trees for ten or fifteen minutes when footsteps shuffled nearby, and Tonks came to sit beside her, her burgundy hair in a messy bun and wearing shapeless maternity work robes. She gave Hermione a sad half-smile, and Hermione lamely said, "Hi." Tonks was not a witch for small talk, and she went right to it. "Hermione," she asked gently, "why didn't you _tell _me, love?"

And Hermione poured out to Tonks how incredibly lonely she'd been, how scared, how Draco had hurt her and she hadn't been able to tell even Ginny the truth. She left out the part about her baby's true parentage, but spared nothing else, and Tonks held her close and murmured encouragement and comfort to the younger witch.

Her sadness spent, Hermione lifted her head and wiped her eyes and nose, looking around to find the sun was barely still to be seen in the sky. She gave the metamorphmagus a shaky smile and sniffed, "You're going to be a great mother, Tonks."

Her friend returned the smile and patted her own rotund belly. "Thanks," she grinned, and sniffed along with Hermione. "I can't imagine where I'd be without Remus. I never thought of myself as the mothering type, really. Landed a bit far from the tree in that regard." They giggled.

Tonks' face sobered up and Hermione braced herself for more questions about Snape hurting her, but what the Auror actually said was, "Does he make you happy, Snape?"

Hermione looked down. "I… don't know," she answered, mostly because she hadn't really thought her "character" through, and realized that she really _didn't _know the answer to that question… but that she could at least tell as much of the truth as possible. "He's good to me, if not kind; and he keeps me safe." Tonks nodded, but wryly glanced at Hermione's midriff. "How safe are you really, though? Doesn't seem like he thought much about _that._"

Hermione nodded. "I know. I know how bad it looks. But everything I'm going through is nothing compared to the position he's in." She looked out over the meadow and her mind took her somewhere else, back to the Headmaster's office when he'd cradled her to him and sang soft words in her ear. Tonks noticed the young witch's reverie and pulled her from it by asking abruptly, "Do you love him, then?"

This time, Hermione told the whole truth. She looked back at Tonks, bit her lip for a moment, and then couldn't stop the grin that spread over her face. "Yeah, I… I think I do." Her face fell quickly as something occurred to her, and she shot Tonks a warning look. "But _don't _tell him." Tonks waggled her eyebrows, grinning, and got up slowly, dancing away as Hermione tried to grab her arm. "And don't tell Remus, either!" said Hermione, raising her voice, and Tonks said back, "Oh, don't worry, luv, I won't tell them… but I might tell Minerva!" The older woman ran across the garden, Hermione chasing her; but Tonks' "run" turned to a waddle less than halfway to the house and Hermione caught up with her, laughing. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Nah, I wouldn't." Tonks put an arm around Hermione, then reconsidered her statement. "Or would I?"

The women fell together, giggling and shaking with mirth, into the kitchen.

**I love Remus and Tonks, don't you? :D**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hi all! This chap is super-long, and I looooved writing it. I want to stress that this story *is* HG/SS, but love is a many-splendoured thing and we mortals can't be telling it which way to go.**

A comfortable two months passed for Hermione at Wellfield. She had plenty of time to study, which was advantageous considering she planned on sitting twelve NEWTS. Her housemates divided up her subjects between themselves, Remus covering Defense Against the Dark Arts (of course), Arithmancy, and Ancient Runes—_the brainier subjects, _mused Hermione, _I can't say as there's really any surprise there; _Tonks helped her with Charms and Astronomy; Molly, as it turned out, had been quite the Potions student in her day ("It's quite a bit like cooking, you know, dear," she'd chuckled, when Hermione had looked at her, aghast), so she tutored Hermione in that subject, as well as Herbology. Minerva came by every so often to give Hermione an intensive lesson in Transfiguration; the two witches had regained their friendship, but both were careful never to speak a word about Severus Snape. For her other subjects—History of Magic, Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures, and Divination (with Firenze, Hermione found it much more credible)—light reading sufficed, and Hermione could borrow whatever books she wished from the Hogwarts library via Snape.

The supposed father of her child came to Wellfield each Tuesday and Thursday night, as well as every other Friday, promptly at 9:00. Without fail, he was impossibly cordial to the Lupins and Andromeda, and impossibly withdrawn towards Hermione. The Headmaster would sweep in through the Floo, somehow making even that ungainly method of travel look sophisticated, and kindly greet the married couple with a few words and a nod toward each of them; he'd bow to Andromeda and Molly, if they were present; and then his flint-hard eyes would fall upon Hermione, narrowing to slits before he gripped her upper arm and jerked her toward the direction of the bedroom she'd been given, the downstairs room at the front of the house which had been intended for use as a formal parlor.

Legilimency lessons were torturous for Hermione. Snape was wan and drawn these days, perpetually and obviously exhausted—he could not have made it more plain. Unfortunately, Hermione wanted nothing more than to take him into her arms and comfort him, and she feared that she couldn't make _that _any more plain.

Snape claimed that he would only teach her Legilimency at first, before moving on to Occlumency. For someone who delved into other interpersonal matters with bluntness and aplomb, he was oddly and upsettingly distant when instructing her; her first lessons were theory only, and then, when he began to teach her to probe his mind, he kept himself so well-hidden behind innocuous facades that Hermione grew more frustrated than she thought possible. He knew it, and she knew he knew, and he knew that _she _knew… _that's life with Snape, I suppose, _she told herself sternly. _If you think too hard about the way his mind works, you'll fry your own._

The baby grew inside her each day, and being pregnant made her feel calm, whole, invincible. She moved at a slower pace, both mentally and physically, and took more time to appreciate the little things in life, like a cup of coffee with Tonks in the early morning, or a ride with Remus into town—both glamoured, of course—to pick up groceries or something for either baby. But pregnancy brought one problem to Hermione that she couldn't shake—a problem that was deeply exacerbated each night that Snape came to teach her.

Bluntly put, she was horny as hell.

The dreams came on her in the night, strong and vivid, and she was powerless against them. It was always Snape, though sometimes he came to her with Remus' face first, and then transformed; sometimes Remus watched as Snape teased her or took her. She never reached completion. Many nights she woke to great choking sobs that she realized were her own, and found herself tangled in sweaty sheets, her hands fisted, her lower lip chewed raw. The first few times it happened, she had touched herself seeking release, but it brought her no pleasure, just more frustration. She wanted _him_.

If Snape would begin to teach her Occlumency, he could sink into her mind and she could show him how she yearned for him, how her body betrayed her for him. But, frustratingly, he never looked.

This night, as on so many others, Hermione slept and dreamed. Snape had left an hour ago. This lesson, it had seemed, his aim had been to get as near to touching her as often as he dared, without so much as laying a hand on her arm. He barely let her hear his voice, and she'd come close to tears several times, feeling trapped here where only one man had leave to touch her and apparently he never would. Hermione had gone to bed, her body thrumming, and fallen asleep clenching her legs together and crying silently.

An hour later she woke, shouting. The word might have been "please" or "need," she wasn't sure, but once she was conscious she sat up in bed, breathing heavily, and realized with a harsh jolt that someone—a man-was standing in the doorway.

"Snape?" she called out gracelessly, though she knew it was unlikely to be the Headmaster.

"No," came the low, familiar voice, and then, "I won't come in if you don't want me to, Hermione."

Hermione drew the covers up to her chest though she was clothed and warm enough. Her hand came uselessly up to her hair, though it was dark and she was sure she looked like hell anyway. _But he can see in the dark, _she reminded herself, and had no choice but to give up caring.

She scooted over in the bed. "Um," she gulped, "okay. You can come in, Remus." She had a sudden flashback to being fourteen in his classroom, hardly even aware of her sexuality yet, and was struck by the incongruity between then and now. Thirty seconds ago she'd dreamed that Snape was pumping his fingers in and out of her and whispering obscenities in her ear as she trembled, and now she was in a bedroom with her old DADA teacher. He was sitting on the edge of her bed in a Muggle tee-shirt and soft pajama pants, and his shining eyes were the only part of him she could see properly in the darkness. She felt the maleness of him so close to her, and her skin lit up again, but she quashed the feeling as best she could, hating the way she couldn't stop her body from behaving like that of a bitch in heat.

Lupin slowly reached out to touch her. His large, warm hand landed on her collarbone, gently and intentionally. He left it there for a moment and then turned his hand over, brushing the backs of his fingers against her skin, dipping ever so slightly lower to the neckline of her nightgown. He simply touched her, and the moment stretched on, slow and surreal.

Her breath hitched, and the sound woke him; he withdrew. She was instantly crestfallen, and wondered at that feeling. _I know I just want to get it wherever I can_, she thought. _But I can't use Remus like that. Not like I used Bill._

His voice was barely louder than a whisper. "Go to sleep, Hermione," he said, and, like a child, she nodded and slid down under the covers, turning on her side and closing her eyes.

When she woke again, thrashing, he was there, holding her flush against his own body. She had two thoughts simultaneously: _Is he having sex with me?! _and _It is absolutely impossible that he is having sex with me. _She stilled herself and realized that they were both fully clothed and that Remus was holding her through her nightmare, trying to absorb her pain into himself. She put her hands on his chest and looked up at him; her eyes adjusted a bit. His expression was stony, and his cheeks were wet.

He put one of his hands into her hair at the back of her head, soothing her. She fell asleep again, and when she woke, it was morning and he was gone.

As she got ready to join the others in the kitchen, Hermione felt shell-shocked and confused about the previous night's events. She was, above all else, terrified that Tonks would be furious with her, or think that she'd enticed Remus to her bed. _And what exactly _did _happen? _Hermione's mind went round and round. _I have no idea whether that was romantic or not. Not. A. Clue._

When she entered the kitchen, everyone was present (_Molly might as well just give it up and move in for good, _thought Hermione as the matronly witch bustled around near the stove). Remus sat at the table, one hand holding his head up, looking exhausted; Tonks gave Hermione a bright smile—which greatly confused the younger witch—and beckoned her friend to come sit next to her. Andromeda had a cup of tea in her hands, and she was staring into the distance. Tonks glanced at her mother, and her expression faltered for just a second; but it turned bright again when Hermione seated herself and Molly placed a big plate of pancakes on the table.

After they'd eaten, Tonks turned to Hermione and her lips quirked up in one of her perpetual smiles. "'Mione," she said cheerfully, "Why don't you go with Remus into town? He was just telling me he needed to pick up a few things. I'm sure he could use some help." The werewolf and his wife shared a pointed look, and Hermione got the distinct feeling that she was missing something.

"Um, sure," she replied, looking from one to the other, "I'll go." Something was definitely going on, and she both wanted to know what it was, and wanted it to go away and not trouble her.

Remus and Hermione got into the car, and Hermione found it odd that he didn't mention the glamour they usually used. She normally went into town looking like a Mediterranean brunette with wide, doe-like eyes; Remus generally chose a rather Alpine look, complimented by the jumpers he often wore. Today, though, he got into the driver's side wordlessly, and Hermione's trepidation grew. Whatever Tonks found so funny, her husband didn't appear to be on the same page with her.

He pulled the car to the side of the road when they'd gone only a few kilometres. He turned to her, his expression pained, and her lips parted, her eyes asking if he was alright. _Hell, _she thought, _after last night there's no sense in trying to preserve any social acceptability between us._ "What is it?" she asked softly, and he closed his eyes and gave a little laugh, muttering, "Merlin, there's no way I'm discussing this with a former student."

"Discussing what?"

He looked at her, more serious now. "Hermione, do you know what polyamory is?"

The witch's eyebrows shot up. "I, ah, obviously I can work out the root words."

"Yes."

The silence began to stretch, and Hermione blurted out, "Remus, are you talking about free love?"

His laugh was a bark. "_Free love? _ Hermione, it's 1998. Where on Earth did you hear about free love?"

She tried to cover her gaffe, waving a hand limply and looking out her window. "Just… something I heard someone talking about, once." In truth, it was something she'd heard her parents argue about several times—some of the very few times they'd argued at all. Apparently, free love was one part of her mother's former lifestyle that the woman had had particular trouble letting go of.

Remus touched her hand lightly. "I didn't mean to make you feel silly," he said gently. "I just hadn't heard that term since I was younger than you are now. It was something we used to joke about… you know… professors?"

She looked back at him, trying to hold back a disgusted laugh. "Oh Gods, _Hogwarts _professors?"

"It was just a joke we had." He smirked. "I certainly hope there was no truth in it." They both grimaced.

Remus continued. "So you, brilliant girl, know that polyamory means 'many loves,' but it's not free. It's… _love._ It's a relationship. It's not just sex." His eyes sought hers. "If I just wanted sex…"

She finished the sentence for him: "You could easily have gotten it last night."

He nodded. "Any of these nights, really. I've been… aware of how you're feeling, physically." Words began to tumble from his lips, and Hermione fancied she got a glimpse of what he might've been like as a younger man. "I have… I have _feelings _for you. I feel something for you. He—he leaves you alone, Hermione, and it breaks me!" There was no need to ask who "he" was. The werewolf leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and made a strangled sound in his throat.

Hermione cut him off. "_No, _Remus. What about Tonks? Your child?"

His eyes met hers, vulnerable. "Tonks suggested it. Of course I love her, I do. And I'm not trying to jump into bed with you, or exclude her." Hermione bit her lip while he tried to explain. "It's complicated, I know. But she loves you, too. It wouldn't have to be an issue."

Her eyes misted up, and she looked down at her hands, then back up at her friend. "I'm not certain I understand all the implications of this," she said slowly, "but I feel something for you, too. And, of course, I love Tonks. I'll need to think about this, okay?" she asked tentatively. "You know that I'm lonely. And scared. But there's the issue of… of him. He wouldn't take kindly if someone took what was his."

The werewolf's hands tightened on the steering wheel. He muttered, "_He _doesn't take what's his," and then, almost too soft for her to hear, "the fool."

They drove back in silence, and no one commented on the fact that they hadn't brought anything with them.

_He _came to Wellfield later that day. All her days ran together now, but Hermione realized that it _was_ a Saturday, and wondered if this is where Snape wanted to be when he found leisure time. _Of course not, _she reasoned. _I'm just part of his duty, nothing more. _The faint echo bounced around in her empty heart: _nothing more, nothing more._

Hermione watched him from the corner of her eye all that day; he kept to himself, mostly, although he and Remus did work together in one of the outbuildings for a few hours, doing Merlin-knew-what manly bonding activity. It amazed her that the two men seemed to be forming some kind of friendship. She wondered if Remus was broaching the same subject with Snape that he had talked with her about earlier.

Dinner came and went, and still Snape acted as though she didn't exist. Hermione felt that his lack of affection for her was glaringly obvious—on one side of the table, Tonks and Remus canoodled, smiled at each other, asked each others' opinion of the food—and on the other side, Snape was rigid beside her, speaking if one of the others spoke to him, but never to her.

Finished, he placed his fork and knife together in the centre of his plate and politely thanked Molly for the meal. Then, for the first time, he looked down at Hermione, beside him, and said, "Come with me." His face was so close, and she could feel her eyes go round as saucers—she dreamed of that face night after night, and her heartbeat quickened just thinking of the images that usually went along with it. Just the cupid's-bow of his mouth was enough to make her throb and clench her thighs.

She followed him into her bedroom and sat on the bed; he leaned against the door, elegant as ever in head-to-toe black. "Doing well?" he asked, and his voice was honey. He always gave some semblance of concern to her wellbeing, not usually more than a question or two; he was usually around enough to see for himself if something was wrong with her. Normally, she told him everything was fine, reasoning that she didn't need to add the load of her own problems to the myriad he already bore. Tonight, however, she couldn't hold back, no matter how much she wanted to.

She stayed silent and looked into his face from across the room, shaking her head slowly.

"Is it a side-effect of your condition?" he asked, his eyes slipping to her stomach. "Anything else and it's not my concern."

"It is," said Hermione softly. "It's killing me."

His brow furrowed and he pushed off the door to come stand before her. He laid a palm against her forehead, then the side of her neck, and she shivered and closed her eyes. "Please," she whimpered, and he snatched his hand away abruptly.

"You're not well," he sneered, and she knew, she _knew _she wasn't! She squeezed her eyes harder shut in frustration.

"What is the matter with you, Granger? _What _is this mysterious illness? You're not feverish."

_Am I not?_

How could she tell him what she needed? How in the world could she express to him the horror of the night sweats, the way when she washed her sex and breasts in the shower they were so sensitive as to make her knees buckle?

She opened her eyes, and there were tears of embarrassment in them. "Look," she whispered, "look." He appeared confused for a moment before realization dawned, and he turned half-away from her.

"No," he answered. "I can't… do that again."

"You can't do what?" she asked him, her voice shaky. The only other time he'd been in her mind was after Voldemort had interrogated her, and she couldn't have said what Snape had seen in her mind—figuratively speaking, it had probably looked like mincemeat. Besides, she wouldn't have known how to hide thoughts and feelings from him at that point anyway—she still didn't know how.

He was backing away from her. "I don't… I don't want to see… inappropriate…"

"Damn it!" she cried, surprising him. She jumped to her feet and grabbed him by the collar, shocking the both of them, and thrust her face at his. "_Look!"_

He gripped her arms painfully and dove into her mind, and she knew he was _trying _to cause her pain, but her mind felt it as a welcome penetration and she shuddered. She knew what he felt—her desire, physically, mentally, emotionally—and she knew what he saw: the visions she had after each of her lessons with him, the many ways she dreamed of giving herself up to his pleasure.

He pulled back, panting. "You—you can't—satisfy yourself?" His breathing slowed and he straightened the fabric around his neck. She shook her head. "You can't because you don't know how?"

She laughed mirthlessly. "I know how. It doesn't work. It's not _you."_

His face looked as though he'd been slapped, and he began pacing, his hands in his hair again. After a few moments he stopped and looked at her harshly.

"I _can't _do what you're asking of me, Granger. I can't."

"Why not?" she pleaded. "Everyone already thinks you have anyway. Our side, and theirs. You wouldn't be breaking anyone's rules."

"I can't because you're a child and I have my honor to preserve."

"I'm not a child and you know it. You've _said _it!"

His nostrils flared, but his expression conceded the point. "I can't take someone because of… because it's assumed I would. You'd be no better than a child bride. I won't have it." He turned to go, and she knew she had only moments to convince him.

"_Please!_" she said through her tears, which had formed anew. "Please have me. I _want _you to!"

He turned back to her, opened his mouth as though he would speak, but closed it and fled.

That night she barely slept. Remus did not come to her as she'd thought he might, but when she got up in the wee hours to relieve herself, she found the Marauder asleep outside her bedroom door.

**A/N: Dear Severus… just a word to the wise—when a hot, randy young lady is begging you to take her sweet lovin', just do it already.  
**


	11. Author's Note

**A/N: Hi all, Brigh here. I'm really sorry to do this, but I'm going to have to put this story on hiatus. I don't want to completely abandon it, but I feel so disconnected from the characters right now. Real life is getting in the way!**

I've been debating with myself whether to just force myself to write *something*, but I don't want to give you all shoddy work. Please don't unfollow or unfavorite Into His Hands, because I promise updates *will* happen. Eventually.

Thank you all so much for your patience and your dedication to the story.


	12. Chapter 11

**A/N: Hi, all! I'm back and SO excited to get this show back on the road! I'm sorry it's been forever. I'm going to *try* to get back to some semblance of a normal updating schedule, probably around one chapter per week. Perhaps two. The computer that housed my outline for this story crashed (I know, I should have backed everything up!), so I'm now somewhat winging it. We'll see where they take me.**

A thousand thanks for all of your patience and support. It means the world to me! xo, Brigh  
  
Weeks passed.

Hermione avoided the Lupins, though she was aware that Remus slept outside her door, sitting up, for several hours nearly every night. Tonks' belly grew, as Hermione's did; each day the shape-shifting woman became more joyous and exuberant, while Hermione reflexively became more confused and frightened at the changes in her body. She had begun to feel tiny ghosts of movement in the region of her womb, signaling to her that life was indeed present inside her.

Minerva owled her several times a week, and Hermione confided in her friend and mentor as much of her feelings as she could, but it was painful to tap into the well of emotion threatening to spill out from inside of her. Snape came to Wellfield more and more often, and seemed to hover, strangely, between wanting to reach out to Hermione and completely despising her. Not that she could blame him for that. He gave her long, searching looks, and sometimes laid his hand on her shoulder or the back of her hand where it rested between them on the bench at mealtimes. He still refused her the one thing she asked of him, but he seemed to be trying to be more gentle with her psyche and emotions. And each night, she dreamed of those eyes, those hands, until the wanting threatened to undo her.

Dawn light hit her face. Hermione woke with a start, feeling that she had slept for a year. The crust around her eyes tugged as she reluctantly eased them open. She could smell a savory breakfast frying in the kitchen, and hear Molly chatting noisily away about something that apparently made her quite cheerful. Hermione looked at the beams of sunlight dancing through her window and raked a hand as far through her tangled hair as it would go. And then she heard it: the voice of her self, ringing from some hidden place deep down inside. _That's enough of this wallowing, Hermione, _it said._ Today, we get back to normal._

Just as suddenly as the drama had come—as suddenly as she had been thrust into this business, she was clear-headed again. As clear-headed as she had been those nights in the ocean at Shell. She was no helpless damsel. She had been a fool, but that condition didn't have to persist. Look at all those people who loved her and had chosen to rally around her, choosing to stand by her character despite her actions! Each of them—the Order, the Light—had had instances of selfishness in the past. Harry had chosen to go into the Department of Mysteries against everyone's better judgment; Sirius had gotten himself caught in her third year by allowing the need to fight old battles to overwhelm him; even Dumbledore had put on that cursed ring out of a thirst for power, and sentenced himself to a slow death in doing so.

And then there was Snape. He had gone over to the Dark as a young man, and assisted in the location and murder of who knew how many innocents. Still, as soon as he'd had a change of heart, he had immediately done a one-eighty and started living his life to the service of others, instead of their impediment. If he could recover from such mortal transgression, so could she.

Rising, she stretched her arms to the ceiling.

_My strength knows no bounds._

It would not be easy to repair the damage she had done, she knew. Her life would be drastically different now. Plus, she had been fabricating this façade of helplessness and floundering, which she would have to repair. The Order had known her for six years; soon they would remember who she really was—strong, sure of herself, a liberated Witch through and through.

She quickly showered and dressed, and wrote a short self-pep-talk in her journal. Her stomach rumbled, and she headed to the kitchen for breakfast, pasting a smile on her face and purposely injecting a spring in her step. She looked Molly clear in the eye, and answered Andromeda's bright greeting with equal cheer; both women appeared surprised but pleased at finding a new Hermione in the house. _I'm not new, _she reminded herself. _I'm just me again, after all this time._

She had written something else when drafting her journal entry; something she had torn off and folded carefully, putting it in the pocket of her dress. She took it out now, and checked it again to make sure it sounded right. Satisfied, Hermione nodded, folded the note again and slid it beneath the Lupins' bedroom door. _My dear ones,_ it read. _I cannot... but it doesn't mean I don't love you both. Please understand. Your Hermione._

There was only one thing left to do: see him and find out if he would help her repair all the she'd wrecked. Clenching her jaw, she crossed the living room to the fireplace, and reached her hand for the lacquered bowl of Floo powder on the mantel. She stopped short of touching the lime-coloured grains. Would Snape be angry with her for intruding upon his space without permission? _It doesn't matter, _she told herself, breathing out quickly. _This is something I _have _to do._  
_  
_"The Headmaster's Office, Hogwarts," she called to the room, throwing the powder into the embers and clenching her fists as she stepped inside. Her hair flew up into her face, and the smoke made her cough. After a long moment the world stopped spinning, and Hermione could tell that she was in a far different fireplace to the one she'd just been standing in. The sound of a chair scraping the floor came to her ears, and she opened her eyes to see that he had risen, regal and commanding, glaring his displeasure at her intrusion. His eyes questioned and threatened, but she glared right back and climbed out of the fireplace, keeping her eyes on his though it caused her heart to thud wildly within her. _Merlin, but he's beautiful. _As though he could read the unwelcome emotion in her eyes, a shutter fell across his own, masking whatever he was feeling and projecting a veneer of pure disdain.__

She crossed the room in silence to stand before him—to stand before the desk where she'd sat and told her deepest secrets to a man who had no compassion at all. But there was also the time that he'd held her, and wiped the disturbing images from her mind with surprising tenderness. Could that man and this one possibly be one and the same?

His power radiated from him, hanging palpable in the cold, stone room. Their eyes never fell each from the other's, and, slowly, the tension between them melted away, until she felt that she could speak whatever she was thinking without fear of ridicule or judgment. She was reminded of a story she'd read once, about a journalist who had gone to interview a Native American medicine man. The medicine man had acquiesced to the interview, but only if the journalist would stare into his eyes first. The two men had looked at each other for two hours, the story said, and after that there had been no need for an interview.

It was that easy to look into Snape's eyes, now. When he realized she wasn't on another fool's errand, he removed his mask of anger for her, something he never did for anyone he considered to be beneath him. Hermione's eyes kept drifting downwards to his mouth, and the long, still moment between them was compounded by the intimate knowledge that he knew she was thinking of him carnally, that she couldn't help it; that she was trying to keep her mind innocent and failing. He took this knowledge without ridiculing her, and for that she was immensely grateful.

"Please," she said at last. "Just look inside my mind again. Please."

Snape moved around his desk to sit upon it, affecting a casual position. He still had not spoken, but nodded once and unfolded his long hand, indicating the chair before him. Hermione sat, suddenly nervous of what he might see, and she let her eyes fall to her hands. Snape's gentle, calloused fingers came up under her chin—she felt her pulse pick up—and he tipped her face up to his and _looked._

And Hermione wept.

At long last his voice came into her mind. _We have been here before, _he told her, his thumb idly tracing over the dip between her lips and chin. _Yes, _she answered. Why hadn't he removed his hand?

Her tears continued to flow. She knew she was red-faced and snotty, ugly, twisted. After several attempts at putting her feelings into a cohesive statement, she gave up and just let the words flow. _I'm so sorry. Please forgive me! I didn't think of how it would affect you—of what you would have to do just to keep me safe. I didn't think at all. And now I'm so _reduced! _Impetuous, self-absorbed, and I want to be more—I want to be trusted, trustworthy. Won't you be for me what Dumbledore was for you, those years ago? Help me to change. I want to change._

The dark man looked long, and saw her anger, her futility, her realization that she had let everyone down for nothing, for a whim. Perhaps he recognized something there, for he slid his hand from her chin until his large palm gently cupped the place where her jaw met her neck. He let his fingertips find her racing pulse, and a look of male satisfaction escaped him before he schooled his face again, considering her request. Finally, his black eyes found hers again, and he nodded.

_Good girl, _he told her, and his lips quirked up ever so slightly. _This is the beginning of a good thing. Of course I will help you, brilliant one. Can you know how I've been hoping for this to happen?_

She understood then that all of his increasing frustration was the result of her increasing descent into teenage-hood and unremarkeability—how he'd known she was capable of more, and wanted more for her, frustrated that she would settle for an attitude that refused to let her reach her potential. And she understood, too, that they would not be able to go back now to their impersonal dealings and evasive words; not after this.

They sat in silence for a while longer, enjoying whatever this new understanding was that they had come to, until the Floo again burst to life and startled them. Hermione expected to see a resident of Wellfield, probably Remus or Tonks, wondering where she had gone, but the visitor was none other than Minerva McGonagall, looking bedraggled and half scared to death. Snape jumped up from his improbable position so near to Hermione, and the young witch noted McGonagall's raised eyebrow at their proximity, which disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Minerva?" Snape inquired, urgency in his voice. "What is the matter? What brings you?"

"Severus—Hermione," the Scot greeted them both hurriedly. "I came to find you, Severus, but the both of you should come. We need to Floo to Shell Cottage at once. Potter's returned." Snape's face betrayed his surprise with the same small changes that signaled all his emotions—Hermione knew what to look for, now, but someone who didn't spend so much time with him may not have seen a change. She knew that her own eyes popped and her mouth opened.

"Is he…?" she asked softly, her voice shaking, and McGonagall looked at her with pity, shaking her head. "He's only shaken up, thankfully," she told her student and friend. "But he's alone."


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: A short chapter, but an early one. That counts for something, yes? Thank you, beautiful readers, for taking the time to read my humble efforts. I was nervous about writing Harry, but feel I've done a decent job.**

I'm not J.K. Rowling, and if I were, the wine I was drinking while I wrote this would have cost more than ten dollars.

Shell Cottage was exactly as they had left it—desolate yet comforting, austere yet beautiful. Snape and Minerva swept through the side door after landing from a jerky Apparition, and Hermione slowly followed them. The teachers were so intent on their goal that they didn't notice her fall out of step; but she was caught by a sudden sensory onslaught by the smell of the sea, the sight of the scrub, the cool dampness of the air. It brought back the night she had made her odd decision, and she had to stop a moment and just stare at the doorframe while she collected herself. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and caught up to Snape, who had noticed her absence at the foot of the stairs and turned to stare at her as though she were a first-year out of line in the corridors at Hogwarts.

There were no signs of anyone else in the house; Hermione wondered as she climbed the narrow stairs whether Luna, Dean, Ollivander or Griphook were still present, or whether they had moved on to Order missions or safe-houses. The crackled paint on the wooden banister crumbled beneath her fingers and she withdrew her hand, then jerked to a stop as she saw a familiar, scarred face looking intently into Minerva's as she proceeded Hermione and Snape into the largest spare bedroom. Bill looked into Hermione's eyes for a second or two and nodded in greeting, and her breath caught in a most unpleasant, frightened way; Snape's shoulders stiffened harshly, but he didn't turn toward her to see if she had reacted visibly to the surprise. She flattered herself that she hadn't.

"Potter?" Minerva's Scottish burr was soft as she bent over the low bed's occupant in a manner of motherly concern, murmuring to him. From Hermione's vantage point the headboard prevented her from seeing Harry, and she pushed past Snape in a way she never normally would, nearly shoving him aside with her shoulder, to get to her friend.

Tears sprang to her eyes—_damn my hormones!—_and she sat solidly on the side of the bed, throwing her arms around Harry before even truly getting a good look at him. His arms, which were harder and longer than she seemed to remember, came up around her and tightened, pulling her, and she didn't care that by the end of it she was half-lying on him, having forcefully shunted two of her former professors out of the way. Harry's hands clenched the fabric of her cardigan and she choked out a sob against her will; she realized now that she hadn't known if she'd ever see him again.

"Oh Merlin, Harry, oh _Merlin!" _she spouted, pulling back to look at him. His eyes were soft and he gave her that so-familiar half-smile of his. "I know," he said gently, his hands coming up to rest on her forearms. "I know, Hermione. I missed you too. So much."

Then she sat up and he noticed the difference in her midriff, his eyebrows shooting up, then drawing together in a look of concern. As she scooted up closer to him, he scooted back, his face betraying his shock. He raised his green eyes to her face and his lips fell apart—he couldn't ask the question, she knew, but it was very obvious the question was there.

"Harry—I can explain—" she began, the tension evident in her voice, but the deep, silky tones of the former Potions Master surprised her first.

"Minerva, Weasley," Snape said smoothly, "I think we can wait a quarter hour to hear the story from Potter. It seems prudent, if we would hear his information given in any calm and coherent manner, to allow his reunion with Miss Granger to take precedence."

_Well thank the gods for that_. Hermione's eyes closed and she let out a long sigh as she heard the room's other three occupants shuffle out and close the door. She couldn't dare to look at Harry's face again until she knew they were gone. Even after they'd departed she could only stare at the pattern scalloping the edge of the bedsheets, and when the silence had stretched long enough, Harry blurted with his usual lack of preamble, "You're _pregnant? _What—_pregnant, _Hermione? A baby? Now? In the middle of a war?"

It took all her strength to resist rolling her eyes. _No, Harry, not now; I'll have it in five years once I've graduated university and gotten a job and a flat. _Merlin, she wished. Suddenly they were back in the library at school, Harry pegging her with questions which all had extremely obvious answers… she couldn't count how many times that had happened, and she felt now the same confusing mix of endearment and exasperation it had always brought on her.

She tried to smile, but didn't quite achieve it. "Yes, Harry. Pregnant, with a baby. Obviously now. Trust me, it wasn't what I wanted." _Really? It didn't even take two to tango, rapist. You need to re-examine your story here. _"Okay, I mean, obviously I knew conception was possible when I… I mean really, Harry, I never planned to be a teen mum, it just sort of _happened—"_

"Wait." Harry cut her off, sitting up quickly and hunching over himself, his hands coming up to gesture as he tried to figure it out. He looked at her incredulously. "It's not Ron's, is it? I know you guys have been dancing around each other forever, but I've got to say, that's moving awfully fast from a few months ago—I mean, he tells me everything, Hermione—and I know you two weren't—that you didn't—"

Hermione's eyes pinched shut and she shook her head. "It isn't Ron's." More deep breaths, and she bit her lip before saying "Harry, it's not what you'd expect, but—"

"Hold on, now." _Oh, Harry, you never could sit on an idea for more than a nanosecond. _"This wasn't the Order's assignment for you, then? To have someone's baby… for whatever reason? Did they make you do this?"

"For God's sake, no!" she said sharply. "I know Dumbledore was remarkably emotionally detached for all act he put on, but no, I don't think anyone in the Order, past or present, could bring themselves to use any of us as stud or broodmares to suit their purposes." His face relaxed slightly, but she knew she had to deliver the blow soon enough.

"Harry," she said, intentionally calming her tone as if placating a small child, "I'm having Snape's baby."

Harry stared at her in silence.

"Snape's." She said again, turning her head a bit and searching out his face for any hint of a reaction. "Severus Snape?" she tried. "Our teacher for the most recent third of our lives?"

Slowly, Harry's eyes began to swim and he very, very softly said "Jesus, Hermione, I never thought I'd have to kill a man—other than Voldemort, of course."

And then he was extracting the blankets from his legs, palming his wand, lunging for the door—"No, wait, Harry! _Wait!"_ Jumping up, she gripped his arm and turned him to face her, her expression earnest. "He did _not _force me, Harry; he didn't coerce me. I wanted it, wanted him. I was scared, he's overworked, we just sort of—fell together."

A long, long minute passed. Hermione felt every second of the sixty. Then Harry moved trance-like to the bed and sat like a stone, not looking at her. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands. "I… am… utterly disgusted at that thought." Hermione snorted. He continued. "But I love you." The Saviour of the Wizarding World looked up and the half-smile had reappeared, which melted Hermione's fearful heart. "I love you, ok? You and Ron, you're the best things about my life. As much as I can, all things considered, I want to give you whatever you need."

They smiled at each other for twenty or thirty comforting seconds, before Harry, as an afterthought, asked, "So what's the situation like now, then? Your situation, I mean."

She sighed and sat next to him, putting one of her hands into the other and moving her palms and fingers around in nonsense motions as she spoke. "I live at an Order house called Wellfield. It's Remus's—he and Tonks live there as well, and Tonks' mother. Snape's still at the school, obviously, but he didn't think I'd be safe there, once it got out I was—" she glanced at her hard, slightly poky stomach—"like this."

Harry looked at her steadily, not showing sympathy or agreement. He just looked, and her heart expanded. She hadn't realized how she'd missed her quiet friend's stalwart acceptance of anything that would make his loved ones happy, no matter how unexpected or strange. "You still call him Snape?" he asked finally, his lips quirking a bit. "And he calls you 'Miss Granger'? Is that a little odd, or is it just me?"

"Honestly, Harry," she sighed, her nose scrunching in humor. "It's me and it's Snape. There are _way _odder things about all this than what he and I call each other."

Harry seemed satisfied with this answer and it seemed that the conversation was drawing to a close. He crossed to the door and stopped before calling the others, turning back to Hermione for a moment.

"Is he good to you? Kind to you and all that?" he asked her quietly.

"He's… himself," she answered truthfully, and her best friend nodded and opened the door to call back his teachers and comrades-in-arms. Darkness fell as Harry told them where he had been for the past four months—told them about a Dark magic called a Horcrux, and how Aberforth Dumbledore had died valiantly at the hands of a horde of Inferi, in an underwater cavern in Cornwall.


End file.
